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There are several unimportant matters that we should dispense with before going on, the first of these being that the coffee is ready, but that it’s too cold in the house to actually want to get up and pour myself a cup.  57 degrees in here this morning, if you can believe that.  Downright nippy, which leads me straight to the second matter, which is, damn rain.

That’s right.  Damn rain.  Pouring down on that woodpile of mine, if I can even call it a woodpile anymore, and keeping everything wet.  I’ve burned up most of the good wood, and now all that’s left are mostly just scraps and chunks of knots that aren’t worth a damn for getting things going again.  Useless!  Just sitting there smoldering and hissing on top of what few coals were left this morning, not throwing out any heat at all that I can feel.  Kind of reminds me of when I used to try and turn on my wife at night by falling asleep while she was talking about her feelings.  Yea, that’s right, and don’t think you can get all indignant on me here this morning either.  I know you’ve done it yourself, so don’t try kidding anyone.

What?  A woman you say?  Well that’s different.  I’m sorry, baby.  I was just so tired.  No, no, it’s not you.  Really.  Go on.  I’m listening.

Which brings me to my third unimportant matter this morning - listening.

While everyone can tell you how important listening is, turns out there just aren’t enough good listeners in the world to go around.  Now, I’m not sure if this is because there aren’t enough listeners, or if maybe, there are just too damn many talkers.  Don’t worry, I’m not going to try and figure it all out here and force everyone to read about it, because I’m pretty sure that’d qualify as just more talking, and if I’m one thing, I’m no talker.  No, I’m more of a listener.  Except those times that I fell asleep, of course, but let’s not get into all that. 

Seriously, I’m all about listening.  Like this morning, for instance.  As I sat around my brother’s house yesterday, the two of us patting our full turkey bellies and thinking about dessert, we realized that it was time I incorporate his CD collection into my mp3 collection.  As everyone knows, the little brother is always indebted to the big brother, so I gathered up a handful of disks and am diligently adding them to my collection this very instant.  Stevie Ray Vaughan, some Scorpions, The Fabulous Thunderbirds, and the soundtrack to the movie, The Wedding Singer, which incidentally, we saw a commercial for the moment we got home last night, which then led to the boy playing the song Rapper’s Delight over and over and over.  And over.  It’s the version from the movie where the little old lady sings with the helium voice. 

This afternoon I return to his house for a turkey rematch, and plan on downloading his entire Neil Young collection.  Which is good, considering the size of his sibling debt.

“I’ve got them all,” he said.  “The new one’s great.”

What?  You’re still reading?  You must need something better to do.  Here, listen to some Fabulous Thunderbirds.  [Links removed}

I Believe I’m In Love :: Give Me All Your Lovin’ :: I Hear You Knockin’

My back is good for four, maybe five wheelbarrow loads of wood before the day is ruined completely, but seeing that the back porch is down to two sticks, something must be done.  Imaginary Keith claims to be printing out some invoices, although any more I’m beginning to doubt just about everything coming out of his mouth having to do with work.  Where’s the money?  That’s what I want to know.  In voices, I’m thinking.  Like the voices in his head.  The man has completely lost it, I’m telling you, leaving it up to me to gather the wood.

It’s cold, but the sun’s shining, so the day has that going for it.  I see the little dog has Barncat trapped halfway across the field - a standoff - much like me and the bill collectors calling me on the phone.  They’re the barking little dog and I’m the cat, trying hard to ignore the noise.

The first load of wood goes off without a hitch.  Over the summer wood has been dumped onto a big pile behind the barn, without much forethought whether or not it’s seasoned enough for burning this winter or needs to wait for next year, so I need to do a bit of sorting as I load up.  The whole business is no doubt a conspiracy against the muscles in my back, which begins to reveal itself while I’m pushing the second load towards the house.

So soon? I think.  The bastards! Of course, I’m not exactly sure who the bastards might be.  The wood?  The men who piled it?  Fuel oil itself?  A-haa!  The men who piled the fuel oil.  The prices I mean.  Them.  Maybe.

The dog, I see, still has the cat trapped, although I notice that the noise has edged its way closer to the barn.  That means safety for the cat, which I take as a good sign, an economic indicator of sorts, although I do hear the phone ringing as the wheelbarrow rolls onto the back porch.  Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap.

The fourth load will be my last.  The muscles are pounding now, or maybe the Mastercard guy finally got tired of calling and instead just drove over, climbed up on my back, and started stabbing me with his phone.

The dog has stopped barking.

The chickens seem abnormally quiet.

I hear Bob’s tractor off in the distance.

I reach into the pile to pull off another log, maybe even the last one for the day, I’m thinking, when the conspiracy plot rolls into action.  Some skinny little stick grabs onto the log I’m lifting and launches itself somehow straight at my face.  Bonk!  Ploink! Or maybe it’s just a plain and simple Poke! All I know is suddenly the bridge of my nose is bleeding, and when I look down to see what hit me, the stick has fallen into a pile of three or four other sticks that all look the same.  Hiding!  An ingenious plot!

The dog, by the way, has started barking again, and probably only stopped so he and the cat could watch me get bonked.  Dogs can sense these sorts of things, you know.  Cats, too, but that’s mostly only because they plan them.

I wheel the final load up to the house, the bridge of my nose stinging all the way up the driveway.  The chickens watch me as I go by, no doubt staring at the bloody spot.  Have you ever seen how ruthless chickens get when there’s a bloody spot involved?  They’re no doubt in on the whole thing.

Inside, I tend to my nose and notice that somehow the whole morning has slipped away.  Molly, the indoor cat, is in the recliner, pretending to sleep.

Returning home from the NaNo meeting tonight, I realize two things I’ve forgotten to do today while the sun was still shining - gather wood for the fire and put a mouse trap in the van.  Running out of wood for the fire I expect, but come on, another mouse in the van?  What’s going on here?

Having all those boys over the other day meant going back behind the barn and breaking the van out of cold storage.  I don’t drive it much these days, preferring the Outback, and figure I might as well enjoy the Subaru for as long as I can, given the current financial situation.  These days, things could just about go either way.

I know this: there was no sign of mouse activity in the van when I pulled it up to the house Thursday afternoon, so sometime Thursday night, while it was parked in the driveway in front of the house, a mouse broke in, did a bit of pooping, nibbled at some gum, and tried his best to get to some soda that was left in a cup in a cup holder.  Tiny paws, gripping at the straw.  Cussing, I’m sure, in some squeaky little mouse language.  And pooping, of course, on the lid while he stood there swearing.

So dropping off the load of boys Friday afternoon, they rode along in the back with their feet all held up off the ground, as if the mouse was going to charge them or something.  Ten year old boys are loud, but basically still cowards at heart.  Little boy fears still rumble around in those growing bodies.

Then last night I forgot to set the trap.  Like I said, unless transporting troops of boys, the van gets forgotten.  But tonight pulling in I remembered, so as I sit here writing this, some poor mouse is being lured to his death by a piece of leftover KFC chicken.  A thigh, I think.  Extra crispy.

The minute you start joking around about overflowing toilets is the minute the water starts pouring over the edge of the bowl.

“Daaaaad!” I hear the whooping and the laughing.  Water flowing out into the hall and towards the kitchen.  Great fun for 10 year old boys who already relate about 80% of everything to poop somehow.

I’ve mopped up the water and plunged like a madman without success.  And it’s dinner time.  We review the groceries I bought this afternoon and it looks like I may have cruised only the snack aisles.  The boys vote.  KFC.  Fine with me.  They can wipe their greasy hands and faces around on something other then my house.

“To the van boys!” We’ve all played Halo on the Xbox, the screen split into four sections.  They team up on me, blowing me away time after time.

“How come my grenades won’t kill anyone?” I say.  Or maybe it’s whining.  I hate getting killed so many times in a row.  My ego hurts.

“To KFC!” I yell.  My plan is to buy them only gizzards.  Paybacks are hell.