Mom Says Post

Beautiful Fort Ticonderoga

I received an email from Mom today with the subject line "Goodbye Irene" which I think is a subtle hint that she's ready to see some different content on this page. So! Where to begin? As with all recent posts, it's not the lack of things to talk about, but the abundance.

About a week after the hurricane, Jeff and I took off with our reenacting group (the Queen's Own Loyal Virginia Regiment; look us up on Facebook!) to New York, to participate in an event at Fort Ticonderoga. If you're thinking "Nicki, you live in Tidewater Virginia, and Fort Ticonderoga is in upstate New York, located on a peninsula that sticks out into Lake George, near the Canadian border, that's an insane amount of driving!" you would be right. We left Thursday afternoon, picked up a few more unit members in Maryland, and arrived Friday morning at 5:30 am. We immediately put the cars in park and took a nap for about an hour, until the local diner opened up and we could have some eggs and bacon for breakfast. (For the record: driving overnight is the only way to do I-95)

The town of Ticonderoga is, in a word, beautiful. It is tucked into a little valley in the Adironack mountains, with pine trees and winding roads rising on either side of it. The road to Ticonderoga winds through several little towns, all with locally owned restaurants, shops and hotels--definitely a place I want to revisit when I'm not busy playing history. Since we arrived a day before the event started, the unit had plenty of time to build a camp and generally unwind and relax after a long drive. The Queen's Own is trying to be a very historically accurate group, and one of the things that is most accurate is the fact that there are no tents when you're a militia unit. So the lads took to the woods, chopping down saplings and gathering brushwood until they had fashioned a lean-to. After scattering a couple bales of straw underneath, we had our shelter for the weekend. Voila.



Camp with a couple of gatecrashers on Friday night. The Queen's Own didn't mix it up too long Friday night, prompting a few comments "wow, those guys are really hardcore..." "No, they just drove through the night, didn't you know that?" Yes, and we can hear you from under our blankets.

I should note that ultimately we want to be able to cary everything into camp on our backs...we were only thwarted in this attempt this time by the addition of a fourteen pound salted Virginia ham. All the food we had was non-perishable, and it was either eaten (ham) or burned (bones). It's amazing how little refuse you leave behind.



The lads receive their orders Saturday morning...we try to run things in a military fashion, apart from the floggings. And even then you can be sentenced to fetch wood and water if you're not prompt.



Overlooking the Fort's guns. There are not any super-awesome pictures of me from this event, this is probably the best one. Also the best because, well, cannons.

Saturday we had visitors (and by visitors I mean "non-costumed civilians") so I was busy cooking for t'lads and answering questions. We were sharing our camp with a group that ate vegan, so it was almost like dueling kettles for awhile. One of our boys volunteered to be tried as a deserter...and he was duly dragged into the "court" by his fellow militiamen, tried and found guilty of desertion. Then the lads went off to the battle (we won), and after supper we went up to the Fort to share some libations with the American rebels.



A deserter in our midst! Get 'em, boys!



The lads advance during the battle...

Fort Ticonderoga was built in the 1750s by the French...the British took it away from them, then the Americans took it away from the British, and then the British got it back until the end of the Revolution. It was manned again during the war of 1812, and even during WWII it served as a radio base. Today it is a living history museum, with costumed interpreters, an EXCELLENT museum, a nifty giftshop and cafe. During the 19th century it was restored by a wealthy family who also built a small hotel down by the waters of Lake George, near the King's Garden. This is near where we were camping...the Americans got to sleep in the Fort. But really, after seeing the hardpacked earth and stone floors of the fort versus our comfy grass and straw beds, I think we Loyalists got the better end of the deal. Fort Ticonderoga was also recently featured in an episode of "Ghost Hunters"...and yes, Nicki is glad she only learned about the ghosts after we went there.



The Fort at night



Discussing the day's tactics with the serjeant.

Sunday I watched the battle, repeated for that day's guests. It was fun to mix in with the civilians, shouting encouragement to "our brave boys in red" and getting the stink-eye for it. Many guests thought I was a history teacher, but I had to correct them and say "no, this is just wicked interesting, that is all." It's hard to describe what a re-enactment battle is like. Most battles try to recreate an actual event, but there are some sites that will just make up battles to demonstrate what eighteenth century tactics looked like. This event was one such. Basically the scenario involved the Americans attempting to hold the fort, and the British rolling them back like blankets. During the Revolution, there was a garrison of Americans here, but they were so few in number that when the British showed up, it was not worth the lives for a pitched battle. The Americans had already removed the cannons, so the garrison surrendered. Both Saturday and Sunday the British forces began near the base of the hill on which Fort Ti is located, then advanced upward. The militia (including the Queen's Own) acted as light infantry, pushing through bracken, muddy water and trees to get the advantage and cover the regular infantry. Also there were cannons and horses. It was a pretty intense battle, lasting from early skirmishing to a final bayonet charge and surrender, all told around three hours of "fighting." Even though no one was actually hurt by a weapon, one of the guys in our unit did sprain his ankle on Saturday. And I've been to other events where there have been powder burns and even a broken collarbone. Reenacting is intense, and it does leave you drained. (Unfortunately, it's hard to take good photos and even videos of reenactments...trying to catch the excitement from afar is difficult, and if you have cameras in your midst you're liable to irritate reenactors.)

So by Sunday evening we were pretty wiped....we had permission to leave around 4pm, and we did so. Packing up involved rolling up blankets, tearing down our brush arbor and putting out the fire, and then we were on our way. Jeff and I arrived back in Virginia at around 4:30 in the morning on Monday. It was probably the best reenactment I had been to...but I was really glad I had taken Monday off.



This is what Jeff looks like...he is going to be mad that I put this on here, but it's my favourite picture of him so far ever.

It's hard to believe that was five weeks ago now! It's been a lot of fun putting up pictures and reliving that trip. I had a great time, even with all the driving, and I definitely want to go back again.

**All photos of Fort Ticonderoga were taken by Kelsey Freeman...she is a professional photographer with our unit who brought her camera along.

After working Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday of that week, I took off again, this time for Green Bay. As I mentioned previously, Dad took a fall down the stairs at home. Now he was coming home from the hospital, and I went to try to help Mom get him settled. And by support I mean reinforcing some of the new rules, "Dad, when mom says 'eat' she means it!" Dad was pretty weak from being in the hospital for two weeks, but he perked up (and started eating), as soon as he got home...and from what I hear now, a month later, it's only been uphill. Also, bonus, I got to meet my new niece:



I was thrilled. Nora, less so.

And since returning home three weeks ago, it's been work, work, work. As usual. I signed on to work part time at Busch Gardens Williamsburg in their costume shop. As you can imagine, it's quite a bit different from CW's shop. Also, bonus, I get into the park for free and have discounts on food and souvenirs, which came in handy last weekend when Jeff and I had a couple friends come down for Howl O Scream. Then there was also Prelude to Victory, the rebel answer to Under the Redcoats...I had to go around all day pretending to be a patriot supporter of Mr. Washington, but secretly I was a British spy, gathering information. ("Infantry: 62. Cannon: 1") Then just yesterday Jeff and I were back at an old favourite spot of ours, Smith's Fort Plantation, which is a local history museum. They are having their Christmas Craft Show this weekend, so Jeff and I went in our historical costume and talked a bit about the house. Nothing like being able to drive home after an event in thirty minutes or less!

And that's the update...I hope this will not be the last one for another six weeks!

Good-bye, Irene

We survived!!! I was woken up last Saturday by the sound of wind whistling around the house. It gradually increased until it was an unrelenting howl until around noon which lasted until about six PM. The wind didn't go down completely until after one AM. I spent most of the day on the sofa. In the morning I was surfing the internet, waiting for the power to go out--and let me tell you, THAT'S a weird feeling, knowing that the power is going to go out and just waiting for your big exit from civilization. I managed to get a hot meal around 12:30 and then *blink* *blink* power gone. For six days. After the power went out, the biggest problem was leakage. The wind was beating so hard against the door upstairs that it was actually forcing water through the door knob, through the frame, and then down into the ductwork below. Downstairs I had a bucket brigade going. There wasn't a lot of rain (as compared to, say, Vermont), but the wind was unreal. After awhile, I sort of got used to it, and spent the afternoon sewing, listening to a book on my computer.

Some videos I took during the storm:







Jeff came home about six, during the lull of what had been the eye--and about thirty minutes before VDOT closed the James River Bridge due to high winds. We had some cold bean soup for supper (wind was too high to even attempt a fire outside) and some other non-perishable rations, like cookies, and then I finally dragged Kizzy outside for the first time all day. Jeff and I watched our neighbor's dock get torn up. The James was at high tide around this time, and the waves were approximately five feet above high tide. They completely lifted away the decking on the dock next door to us, and slammed some of the planks into the dock on our property. (Our dock is really just steps down to the beach, with nothing sticking out into the water) We stood on our dock, watching waves pound the cliff and feeling the shuddering motion as planks and rafts of decking slammed into our piers, and then I decided it was time to retreat back to the safe cave of our living room.

However, as far as damage went, we did pretty well. Mostly it was tree limbs and pine cones (and by "pine cones" I mean every pine come in a three-county radius is lying in our yard) but we did have a few major branches come down. One was neatly resting on a power line. The willow tree out front is completely shattered. Apparently this is the survival mechanism for willow trees, for Jeff assures me that the same thing happened during Isabel, and the tree came back. Cleaning up later that week, we found willow leaves wrapped around the bushes by the mailbox. Further down the road the power lines were completely broken, like guitar strings. Right at the end of our street, a tree had completely fallen across the road, taken out a power line pole, broken all the lines, and sent a transistor scattering into a corn field. Honestly, the biggest shock was that the power came back on as soon as it did!

Sunday we spent cleaning up and practising our outdoor cooking, a skill with which we happily have a lot of experience. Monday I got a surprise when I went into work and found that Williamsburg had no power. I got to spend time with the military guys on Monday, and Tuesday I just came home and cleaned up. We have a brush pile in our front yard that's taller than me now, and after working one afternoon with his uncle, Jeff wants a chainsaw. Luckily the weather has been a dream. High 70s, 60s at night, so leaving the house open to the elements has not been a problem, nor has sleeping. The biggest challenge was finding ice for our perishables--and even that was solved on Monday when I stopped at Harris Teeter. They were giving ice away! I will definitely shop there in future!

In a way, it was nice, the way power outages always are. We were prepared, mentally, the weather cooperated, the food didn't spoil and we ate up most of the stuff in our freezer without a problem. (Strawberries picked in 2010 that moved with me in July last year didn't make it, however) Jeff and I spent our evenings cooking, walking the dog, and going to bed early, since it's hard to read by paraffin-lamp light. We talked a lot, just hung out with each other. When I finally went back to work on Wednesday I missed him like the dickens, and swore that we were going to turn off TV and internet after eight o'clock in future. Even the mosquitos disappeared for a few days.

But now, the power's back on, work is back in full swing, and we're getting ready for a big reenactment this weekend. So, without further ado, a few post-storm pics:


The other neighbor's dock. His deck was about two feet higher than the one that was washed away, but, as you can see, ended up being covered in driftwood and decking material.



My tomato plants. They were nearly blown over, and after receiving a healthy dose of salty James River spray, I think they may be done for the season. But you never know. They are hearty plants all right.



The tree what came down on our power line. Previously, I'd called the power company about having a line resting on this branch, but they refused to do anything about it because the tree was on "private property." Guess what? They cut the branch down (and more!) on Thursday.


Our stove. The bricks are eighteenth-century bricks, leftovers from houses washed into the James by Isabel. We pick out a half-dozen or so whenever we go down to the waterside. Jeff build a little oven and we cooked chicken Sunday night after the storm. Better eating than anything we'd had in awhile!



After the storm...all I could think about was the line from Secret Garden: "Strangely quiet, but now the storm simply rests to strike again...."

***

One more thing...

I also want to let my loyal readers know that Dad took a fall last Friday. He fell down the stairs at home, due to a lack of coordination because of recent health concerns. He is okay, but spent a few days in ICU and is now in a regular hospital room. I know when he finds out I'm writing about him on here he'll be as embarrassed as the dickens, but this is my space, and that's what's happening in my life. And maybe he'll start listening to his doctors and take his pills now. Email me if you'd like more information--mom is asking for no visitors yet--and keep us all in your prayers.

Moving Boxes

I am slowly packing up my apartment, taking it piece by piece over to Jeff's house...slightly embarassed by the amount of stuff that I've managed to accumulate in two years. Most of it is books, and, surprisingly, fabric. (A few weeks ago one of the ladies at work was tasked to clean house, and all the garbage bags of fabric scraps she was tasked to throw away instead went into my collection.)

Some of the things are tossed into boxes with barely an aside: the table cloth I bought to cover up an ugly table, to cover yet another ugly table, bath salts (bought with hopes that I would have time to give myself pedicures and as yet, unopened), the copper-bottomed pots I fished out of the dumpster the first week I lived in this apartment. And there are some things I wrap carefully. The salt and pepper shaker that I bought in Paris and nearly left on the train, a price sticker still affixed to the bottom. My Nelsoniana collection, rum bottle, figurines and watch, which has long since stopped. Pictures of my friends and family still adorn the walls, they'll be the last to come down and the first to go back up. I'm proud to say I have a big pile of things to give away or donate...not nearly big enough, but good for me. And my giant suitcase, pressed into service only because it is an empty thing I can stuff my stuff into. It's too big now to to carry on a plane. I can remember dragging it up the steps at Victoria Station, piggybacked by my smaller Samsonite, a stranger pausing to help me carry it up the stairs.

I am nervous about moving to Jeff's house. Not about the house itself--a glorious home nestled on the James River, newly renovated (still in the midst of renovations, to be honest) a box made out of light, with appropriate spaces for things. No longer will my jug of windshield washer fluid sit cheek-by-jowl with my Pussar's rum. Now I will have room to set up not only my sewing machine, but also my computer, my printer, I will have the silence to think, the space to pace, and a fridge where all the distracting snacks are mine. What I am nervous about is living in a small town. Williamsburg is small--but with its transient, wealthy tourist population, there is still something that passes for nightlife, there are places where one can get sushi and see art-house cinema (not that I've done much of either lately). Smithfield (yes, as in ham) is a tiny community, slowly moving out of the farm-town phase, into the romantic B&B phase, the antique-store phase, the tea-shop and art gallery phase. I do love a touristy town, but even Smithfield might be too small for me.

And then again there's the fact that I will know no one...except for Jeff. I've already told him we must make it a priority to get involved in this community, either volunteering, going to church or starting a Friday-night banjo group. Whatever. It's a strange move this time, still having the same job, keeping the same friends but yet moving to a new place. I miss my old friends more than ever now...it seems like its been a long time since I've had people in my life I could call on twenty minutes notice and go out for a beer with...or better yet, walk in the front door and assume the people standing in the kitchen were waiting for me so they could go out.

Still, I'm more excited than anything. The prospect of getting out of this dank, dark apartment, away from toddlers and shouting footy fans is more exhilarating than the thought of once again being in a place where I don't know anyone. I will be living near my favourite element and watching the osprey chicks grow up as we finishing the painting and get the pictures hung up once more. And I can finally throw the laundry in the wash and work on that masterpiece while I'm waiting for it to finish before hanging it on a line outside to dry.

So I guess I better get back to packing...in addition to moving sometime next week, Jeff and I are also invading Williamsburg this weekend as part of the British Army...I have to wash up some petticoats and get out my beanpot. I won't be cooking, but I might have to "raid" the farmer's market this Saturday...

Spring is here

Because it has been so insanely hot the past three days, spring is on mega-overdrive here. All the vegetation is going "WHEEEE, OMYGOD, OMYGOD, MUST REPRODUCE, MUST CREATE POLLEN, MUST CAST POLLEN OVER EEEEVERYTHIIIIING!!!!!! And now everything has a light dusting of electric green pollen. Good thing I'm not too allergic.

Poor Kizfiz is. He came home after spending the day with friends so covered in the stuff that he looked like a druggie rockstar who had done yellow cocaine. Mama took some pity on his sad little snorting though and hid a half a Benadryl into his peanut butter...now he is a happy, sleepin' puppy.

So everything that can flower, is. Which is too bad--usually they take their time and bloom for several weeks. This year it looks like spring will be over and done with and then next week we'll be back to our regularly scheduled programming of 50-60 degrees. But on the other hand: I have a glass of lilacs next to my bed for beautiful, lilac-scented dreams.

Meanwhile, in Embarrassing Moments in Consumerism

That last post was supposed to be slightly sarcastic, can you tell? I don't know how--since I am actually more organised now that I am an adult--deadlines still sneak up on me. So I'll be cruising through the week when holy crap, you mean that re-enacting event is this weekend and I have to bake bread tonight?! In some ways, re-enacting in late spring is easier, because the foodstuffs you can bring are limited. Dried peas, potatoes, tea, sugar...things that would have survived the winter in a cellar. And maybe an illicit box of chicken stock.

Evening programs have started up again, and I am enjoying it so far...apart from the fact that I have gained so much weight this winter that I look like a sausage stuffed into a green 'n gold casing. Now, CW tends to turn a blind eye to employees wearing their clothes places that aren't CW. Stopping by the grocery store after work, or running to the pharmacy on your break. It happens. Just don't get your clothes ratted up. So last night after work I had to run to Target. Normally I love swanning through stores in stays and buckles, but last night the last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to myself because I had to buy a toilet plunger. While not as embarrassing as, say, a box of Depends, it is still slightly mortifying. One of my roommates has moved out, taking most of the necessary items in the house with her--like the plunger, flour, kitchen table, the key hooks and most of the dishes--but also the wireless internet router. So, not only was I swanning through Target last night in costume, with a plunger tucked under my arm, I also had to ask one of the sales clerks if he knew if this here router would work with a Mac. Arg. It reminds me of the game we used to play when I was an undergrad: "What is the strangest combination of items you can buy at Wal-Mart at two in the morning?" It would have been even funnier if I'd've remembered the third thing I wanted to get: silicone waterproofing for my shoes.

Winter Wonderland

It was very weird--very weird--to walkabout the historic area today. When the snow hadn't arrived by eleven pm Friday night, I went to bed convinced it would never come. I woke up to five inches, with more to come. All day Saturday it snowed, petering out around ten with a dusting of snow fine as mica flakes.

The snow put a pretty effective stop to traffic, indeed to civilisation as Virginia knows it. Poor Kismet was up to his chest in snow, which it made it rather difficult to potty, especially since the person at the other end of the leash was shivering so badly she could barely clutch the loop. Jeff and I spent all day tucked inside cooking. First crepes for lunch, then a hearty potato soup. We only went outside once, when my roommate talked us into seeing "Young Victoria." That required a slog through unplowed roads, wearing makeshift Wellies to keep my feet dry.



I remember, vaguely, weeks of this, snow and cold, with only more snow to follow. Here it's a marvel, a wonder, something to talk about in years to come. And it will probably be gone in a day or two. Already today the sun was out, heating up roofs and cars until snow slid off, drying plowed roads. Jeff and I, and Kismet (who was suffering from mega-cabin fever), took a long walk around the historical area. It was amazingly beautiful, even though the snow had been pretty trampled already, but still lovely. The historical area looked nothing like itself with a thick coat of white all over and a shield of pure blue sky above.







Best Potato Soup Recipe EVAR:
6 white potatoes as big as your fist, peeled and cut up to bite-sized pieces
Fresh fried bacon, cut into bits
Spring onions, chopped fine
A quarter of a red onion, chopped fine
2 cans Campbell's cream of chicken soup
1 quart chicken broth
Pepper to taste
Rosemary (which we did not actually put into the soup, because we did not have any, but I would have liked to try it...the chicken broth seemed to want a savoury herb)

Put everything into a crockpot and let it simmer while you and your sherpa slog through knee deep snow to see a historical drama. (approx. 3 hours) Mash up the potatoes with a hand-masher and let cook for another hour. Serve hot. Eats hearty enough for a meal, but try it with some Jiffy buttermilk biscuits for a real treat.

Smells like snow

The entire state of Virginia is in a state of mass hysteria because we're supposed to get snow tonight. Anywhere from four to fourteen inches. I sigh, because people keep freaking out all around me, when they could really benefit from some Yankee wisdom: get your beer and toilet paper and just hole up for a couple days. Really. Who wants to go anywhere any way? If it's cold and snowy and crappy. So there's no reason to panic...unless the power goes out. But hey, at least we've all go our laptops charged, right?

So it's eight-fifteen and no snow yet...any second now I expect the flakes to start falling...I just took Kiz out and it sure smells like snow... I'll keep you posted. If there's anything interesting to look at when I wake up tomorrow, I'll post some pictures

le sigh...

Now that evening programs are over, I suddenly find myself with ungodly amounts of time on my hands. I thought that my room would be cleaner, projects would get finished, beagles would get marathon'd, but instead I find myself playing despondently with my new computer. I'm taking it to the Apple Store next weekend for a tutorial, and to have them transfer all my old files since I don't have a cord that will talk to my external hard drive. In the meantime, icanhascheesburger.com has never looked so good.

I'm slightly depressed tonight. I was filled with excitement about finally being able to devote some serious evening time to the Billy Lee Project, but after doing some research tonight I discovered not one but two plays dealing with that very man. One of them musicalized. Before you say it, I know--no one else has done it from my viewpoint, and that's true, but it's depressing nonetheless. So, beyond getting Office installed in preparation for beginning the Great Work, not much else has happened.

Well, that's not true. I walked Kismet and plunged the toilet and made hot cocoa. It's still thirty degrees out, and every time I have to go outside I shake uncontrollably. Until I remind myself it could be worse: it could be snowing.

The weight of history

There is a phrase that re-enactors use when they are so into a living history situation, so totally immersed that they actually begin to feel they are living the century they're interpreting. It's called "seeing the elephant" and it has only happened to me occasionally--like when I arrived at the Randolph House tonight. The path through the gate has been a muddy quagmire of late, even though the staff has thrown down sticks and firewood, but tonight, with my breath in the air, the first thought I had when I arrived and saw the path was "Well, one good thing about these temperatures--the ground's frozen, no more mud." Thinking like a colonial, when muddy roads and quagmires were a part of daily life.

My storytelling site has moved approximately twenty feet, from the backyard of the Randolph, to the passageway between the house and the kitchen. (why aren't we in the house proper? Loong story dealing with politics between the Randolph and evening program people) The passageway isn't heated, and since we have to leave both doors open due to fire policies, it's little better than a sheltered lean-to in the cold, windy weather we're currently having. I dressed for work tonight like I was going to a football game: two pairs of stockings, flannel undergarments, shift, stays, (I wear my stays, because it's uncomfortable to tie petticoats around my waist otherwise) underpetticoat, petticoat, sweater, long-sleeved tee, bedgown (it's amazing what you can hide under a bedgown, which is a baggy T-shaped jacket), kerchief and two caps. That's right, two caps. And here we have the eighteenth century solution to keeping warm: More layers. Over all this I threw my heavy wool cloak, which is so heavy it gave me back problems last March when Jeff and I went camping.

Wool is warm, and honestly, if I was sitting down in one place and could tent a cloak over me, it's no problem. But when it's hanging off your shoulders--and you're already wearing twenty pounds of clothing--you can really feel it. I already cheated with the modern sweater under my bedgown. In the eighteenth century, it would have been another bedgown, another petticoat...I can't believe that women never wore some kind of breeches or bloomer like garment to keep their upper legs warm (apart from my hands and feet, that's the part that gets cold soonest), but apparently they didn't. I try not to wear anything there either, because I try to keep the vestiges of authenticity, but on nights...like this...I'd rather just throw on some old flannels than deal with cold on top of all the other complications from my site.

But as for everything else someone might see...everything else that is visible...perfectly authentic. So when I show up in someone's holiday snaps, they'll marvel at the accuracy and maybe, just maybe, spot the elephant.

Walking at night

Another friend mentioned how weird the time shift is...I find it hard as well to spend all my free time in the dark, while looking longingly at the sun through a window at work. (although the sun has been hiding quite a bit lately...and, having taken the beagle out between writing that last sentence and this one, I can tell you it is raining cats & dogs out there right now) If I hurry home from work, we get about a half hour of greyish twilight for our walk. Now that I'm working less evenings, I'm enjoying actually exercising my own dog again. An hour every evening, if I feel up to it. The darkness is annoying, but familiar. I like looking in to the windows of the houses I pass, catching glimpses of paint colors and paintings. Walking through New Town means a lot of similar condos and row houses, and it's incredible how different every owner makes their own property. I don't take my iPod when I'm walking--I rely too much on my sense of hearing for traffic and other people--and that keeps my head clear to think. Tonight I caught a whiff of London, that particular smell that is a mixture of bus fumes, unchanged fryer oil and concrete. One whiff to sense it, one whiff to recognise it, one whiff to savor it and then it was gone.

Home smells like wool and cigarette smoke. That's what I remember from mom coming to pick me up from daycare--the scent I picked up as I hugged her hello, burying my face in her heavy eighties wool power suits. Home smells open, it smells like a house that has routinely had new carpet and adequate windows, properly working central air, unlike our apartment, which has none of the above. Walking at night at home smelled like grass--green and seedy if it was spring, hay if it was fall. There is one spot on the highway here, turning on to 199 from 64, where there is a lack of streelights, and I am always surprised by the constellations suddenly leaping out at me. At home, they were more consistently bright.

I'm not going home for Christmas this year. I am standing up in a wedding, in Florida, four days after Christmas, which would make a trip home very short. It's not responsible to spend money on airfare when I'd only be home for two days, so I am saving that money for when I can come home for a proper visit. This will be the first time I haven't been home for Christmas, the first time I won't wake up in my purple bedroom, or help roll meatballs or re-arrange my nativity after Mom has set it up for me. My roommate and I decided on getting a real tree this year (the money goes to the Lion's Club), which I am glad about, since I'll be here to enjoy it on Christmas Day. I will sneak out early in the wee dawn hours of Christmas morning and put Kizzy's presents under there, then pretend Santa has come. Not because he's my surrogate baby, but because I want to get him pizzle sticks, and he will eat them, paper and all, if I try to put them down earlier. I think I know a place where I can get some kringle. I will go to church here Christmas Eve and cry when we sing "Silent Night" just like I do at home--and I daresay Jeff will come over and we'll cook a big Christmas feast, if I don't get kidnapped by his family. It will be weird waking up on Christmas morning by myself, but once every twenty-seven years isn't a bad ratio.

In the meantime, I have Christmas presents to finish sewing and a bridesmaid dress to put together at some point...so I guess I better get to bed. Good night everyone.

Friday Night

Last week we had a nor'easter, which was pretty hellacious. Worse than Hurricane Hanna, with flood levels near Hurricane Isabel, although most places managed to hang on to their power. It hasn't stopped raining in three almost four days...I'm starting to feel like a character in a Don Bluth film.

Gosh, there's so much to write about. A few weeks ago we at the Costume Design Center had an open house, for the 75th anniversary of costume design at CW, and one of our VP's was so impressed he suggested we should do some kind of evening program based around costumes. Our manager asked me to write it since I am A) intimately acquainted with all of CW's clothes and the historical time periods B) It is a slow time and they could let me go read eighteenth-century Virginia Gazettes without work piling up C) I have a wicked sense of humor and --oh yeah, D) I am a trained playwright. Hyaaaah! Trained like a NINJA. It was so frickin' GREAT to write--and to do it while I was ON THE CLOCK--and barge into Linda Baumgarten's office like I was a professional and question her about stomachers--and let me tell you, the high I got last Friday as I finished that first draft and mailed it in was fantastic. I'd forgotten what that feels like. THIS is what I needed: a clearly defined goal, a deadline and someone who believes in me. The next step is seeing if we can do it..do we have the space, actors, budget, etc, but I will surely keep you posted.

That's the most exciting news...the reason I haven't been posting much is because I've been an overworked, stressed, cranky Nicki lately, and that doesn't make for exciting blogging. The evening programs are slowing down though--I'm getting cancelled more--which is both a blessing and a curse. It's bad, obviously, because it means less money, but it's a good thing because it means I can spend more time working on Christmas projects, walking Kismet and sleeping. Last night I actually got to bed by ten, and I can already feel the difference an extra hour of sleep makes. And I have time to make dinner tonight, so I'm making hotdish. Does anyone out there listen to Prairie Home Companion? I usually catch it Sundays after church...it makes me homesick, listening to all those Midwestern accents. Last time they were talking about hot dish, which got me hungry, even though mom never made it when I was growing up. I had to explain to my roommate that hot dish is a casserole made by a Midwesterner.

I'll try to post some pictures of some projects soon...but some of them are Christmas presents, so they may have to wait until after December 25th...

This has been a shitty, shitty day

How shitty, you may ask? Well, I'm sitting here, eating chocolate chip cookies straight from the tub and using the word "shitty" in my hertofore PG-13 blog.

Jeff was supposed to come up today and spend the day with me...until the brakes on his car exploded. So instead of spending the day with me, he's spending it with a mechanic.

Undaunted, I ventured out into the historical area with Kismet. I tried to return his birthday present--a designer collar and leash--only to be told that I could only return it for store credit. Since the only thing I wanted from the boutique was a designer collar and leash, there's no point in returning it...but I could really use the money for the new tire. (remember the new tire? Oh yes, last Saturday was a winner too.)

Decided to be productive this afternoon and do a little cleaning. Stopped by the Dollar General for some cheap cleaning supplies and when I returned to the car I discovered that Kismet had thrown up all over the backseat. Now, I have a towel to protect the seat where he climbs in before he jumps into his little booster seat...but guess which side he threw up on? Good thing I had all those church bulletins in the backseat to clean up what I could.

Did I mention I hadn't eaten breakfast yet? I had planned on coming home and making myself a big brunch, but instead I grabbed bucket, brush, paper towels and my new bottle of extra-strength Febreeze and cleaned out the backseat. Discovered that last week's rainshower (did I mention I left the windows down Sunday night and it poured and my car smells like dead rat, hence the Febreeze?) had turned some magazines in the backseat into mulch and that was probably why Chi-Chi smelled like a dead rat. I managed to get the mess cleaned up, with much diligent application of paper towels...and a liberal spraying of Febreeze.

At last I got to eat breakfast. Whipped up a batch of Martha White's self-rising biscuits, which looked like hardtack next to the apple cake my roommate made to celebrate her wedding. (fine. Not her wedding--she's re-enacting a wedding that took place two hundred years ago) The hashbrowns I made from scratch were undercooked and tasted horrible and the meatless sausage was a joke. (I hate being vegetarian sometimes. I'll do it, but I'm not happy about it.) I couldn't even enjoy pretending that my biscuits were hardtack, because that just made me think about how many Aubrey/Maturin books are out there that I haven't read yet and never will because I have no money either to buy them for myself or pay the astronomical fine at the library.

Then I got busy with the cleaning. I even moved some furniture around so I could vacumn, but when I unhooked the hose I discovered that it was smoking. Something is wrong with the belt, but I'm not touching it today. Luckily we have the extra vacuum (thank you Dumpster Gods), but that shining moment in the afternoon was quickly overtaken when I attempted to wet-vacuum our sofas. Not only is the one cushion I attempted to clean still wet (thank God I stopped after only one), but it STILL smells horrible. Horrible but with vinegar, because I was trying to be green. Screw it. More Febreeze!

Then, the worst thing of all happened. A few weeks ago Jeff made me a present of some glorious blue wool and silk fabric, to match some eighteenth century chintz I had. I was planning on turning it into a beautiful upper-midding class outfit, something I could wear when we were promenading and making everyone jealous. Jeff had even offered to make it for me, all I had to do was cut it to length. Cutting out a petticoat is not hard: it's two straight cuts straight across the width of fabric. Yet I managed--because it is just that kind of shitty day--to screw it up. Instead of cutting 38", I cut it at 36", and when you're talking about hemlines in the eighteenth century, yes Virginia, two inches matters.

At that point I gave up, cried, put everything away. I have to go to work in twenty minutes (going early so I can try to return Kizzy's collar...he deserves so much better than me) and it looks like it's going to rain. So I'll probably have to perform inside tonight, which is hot, small and miserable.

The one high point of the day came when I checked the mail...I was bitter when I saw the fat envelope, figuring it was more love for the roommate, until I saw the return address. Inside: baby pictures. Thank God for baby pictures. Mom, Dad, Lily--you have saved the day.

parallel parking only

Nothing makes me long more for the public transport system of London than a car breaking down. My car, specifically, Chi-Chi the regal Buick, beige arrow of the Williamsburg byways, scourge of squirrels and students alike. When last I had an oil change the mechanics warned me that I would probably need a new battery before November. "November" became "August" Tuesday night, when I turned the key after work and instead of a purr was greeted with a pathetic clicking noise of an unsuccessful starter. Damn. I called the boyfriend to give me battery a jump, and while I was waiting called dad and cried into the phone until I felt better. Honestly. I felt like such a girl about the whole thing. I knew perfectly well that the battery just needed a little help, and then I could get it to the shop and they'd change it for me--or better yet, I'd get my own damn battery and then dive in there and change it myself--but not having a set of jumper cables or a portable battery sort of put a crimp in my style. Jeff arrived and we successfully got the car started...and then we had the brilliant idea of turning in off to see if it would start again.

It would not.

And, in our continued attempts to get the car started a second time, we managed to melt the positive terminal off the battery. So instead of driving my own car home, I got a lift from Jeff. The car was so dead, I couldn't even get the key out of the steering column because the car had died when the anti-theft device was activated. When I got home, I called dad again, and cried until he suggested that maybe a shower and bed would make me feel better (It was nearly midnight at this point), and he would call AAA in the morning and see what he could do.

He got me hooked up with the AAA Roadside assistance, so the next afternoon I called them to come and tow my car. You should have seen the looks on the faces of the interpreters heading home from a work as the gate swung open (by the way, did I mention my car died in an employee parking lot? It died in an employee parking lot, safely behind a keycard gate. arg.) and a bloody great flatbed tow truck rumbled in, diesel engine growling. It's a very humbling and yet thrilling experience to see your car slowly hauled up on to the giant hydraulic lift like a whale onto the back of a Japanese trawler. I had the guy take Chi Chi back to my apartment, since the AAA people said that they could send a battery truck. But when the battery truck got there, the guy popped the hood, took one look at the corrosive streak left by the acid slowly dripping out of the battery and announced that he couldn't help me.

It's a very thrilling and yet annoying experience to see your car hauled up onto a flatbed truck by the brilliant light of a new morning. This time, I had them take it directly to a professional shop. By 10:40 on Wednesday I had a message saying that my car was ready. I was so relieved to finally have my own car back. Oh, it was glorious to get behind the wheel and be greeted by the purr when I turned the key.

I had two full days to consider and contemplate the innumerable joys of having personal transportation, especially in the light of the fact that the William and Mary students are back in all their blinkered, pedestrian glory. Driving to meet a friend for lunch in the historic area today, I made sure to go extra slowly, avoiding a freshman with a goatee that would have made Tesla jealous. It's the one year anniversary of Kismet's adoption, so we were headed down to the historic area for a walk and some ice cream. It's about a hundred degrees here. A cold front is holding Hurricane Bill off of the coast, but the humidity is ninety-eight percent, and the dewpoint is in the seventies. Not too hot, but wet as the inside of a pitcher of water.

I was lucky enough to find a parallel parking spot in front of Barnes & Noble...I haven't parallel parked in a while, but when I was in driver's ed, I was the class star. Today I had a bit of trouble...banged in to the curb once..or twice...but I figured, since I was very nearly parallel, that a little more gas would slide me along the concrete and I'd be fine. Not so much. When I got out of the car, I discovered that instead of sliding along a concrete curb, I had been firmly jamming my tire into a steel sewer cover. When you hear "pssssssss..." coming out of your tire...you know you are in trouble. I took a deep philosophical sigh and went to eat lunch. On the way back, we stopped for ice cream. I prepared to call AAA (again) and then realised I didn't know the street I was parked on, so I stuck my head in the Baskin Robbins and asked the lady behind the counter what street it was. "Do you need directions? Where are you going?" "No, I...I have a flat tire, I'm calling AAA." "Oh, well, Dave could fix it for you. Dave! C'mere!" And this stringy sixteen year old came trotting obediently around the corner. I mentally weighed up the pros and cons of handing the welfare of my car into a complete stranger, figured I had nothing to lose and five minutes later Dave was laying under my car, wiggling the jack under the axle. And twenty minutes later the doughnut was on. Thank God for mechanically inclined sixteen-year olds.

So now the wheel is sitting at the mechanics shop, waiting for a new tire--I'll get it back Monday--and Chi Chi is Williamsburg-bound for the weekend. So no Yorktown for Kismet on his birthday...but we did get over to Maggie Moo's for some ice cream, and he looks very handsome in his new collar and leash.

Back to Virginia

And I'm back. It was a whirlwind week, that was for sure. I'm not exactly clear where it all went, but I remember being home and seeing everyone, and I remember flying back, so clearly I had a vacation in there somewhere.

The flight home on Friday was uneventful. Both parents were at the airport to pick me up, and then we went over to see Grandma. Who was happy to see me and hear about Virginia and give me the third degree about the boyfriend. And then, of course, we went out for fish, meeting up with Mr & Mrs. Lemery and Lily, better known as the bug in some circles. She is the perfect baby. Charming, always ready to pose, crying only when she is hungry, sleepy or when Grandpa stands between her and a red cut glass candy-dish. At the restaurant she attempted to help herself to Grandpa's beer when he wasn't looking, only to have ever-vigilant mom take it away from her. "It's okay," I said consolingly, "When I take you to England we'll make up for it." I don't think her dad appreciated that.

Saturday my folks hosted a family picnic at their house. It was cooler than we would have liked, and occasionally drizzly, but the pool is heated, so I spent most of my time in there, playing with my younger cousins. It was wonderful to see everyone, and catch up with everyone, and I'm so glad that most of the family managed to make it--we had thirty four people all told, coming and going.

Sunday...I honestly can't remember what I did Sunday. Oh yes, dinner with the family again, only this time salmon and salad, and two very needy chocolate labs snotting up the window as we ate.

Monday I was thwarted by the EAA in my attempts to rent a car, so I left GB nearly three hours after I intended to. I drove down to Fort Atkinson, picked up Laura, and we met up with Sam in Madison. The first time the three harpies have been together in over three years...it was wonderful. Cackling away and swapping stories we've heard in the news and rumors about old classmates. Laura even commented on how "quiet" Sam's fiance is, and I had to gently point out this was probably due more to the fact that he couldn't get a word in edgewise. Sam had to go back to work on Tuesday, and Laura was working on the organic farm co-op, so I drove up to Wanaukee and caught up with yet another bride to be. (for those of you keeping score, this'll be my fourth stint down the aisle...as a bridesmaid) Laura and I caught up with Sam in Spring Green that night, by watching the American Players Theatre production of A Comedy of Errors. It was hysterical, even with the occasional rain. REAL Shakespeare geeks stand out in the rain, because we're HARDCORE INTO THE BARD.

Wednesday--Sam was working again, so Laura and I did Spring Green, where the theatre is located. Spring Green is small, but fascinating. Lots of cool little shops and galleries and organic stores. But, eventually, you've seen all the arty jewelery you care to see, so we headed over to that Wisconsin standby, the tavern. After being carded (more for being outsiders than looking underage) we proceeded to order Leinies and then rail loudly against guns and Republicans which, I'm guessing was probably not really appreciated in a small rural Wisconsin tavern. They did not, however, have cheese curds, so we went around the corner to the bar where the theatre people hung out, and proceeded to repeat the process of ordering beer and railing. This time with a huge basket of curds. "There ought to be a road movie," I said, "through Wisconsin, and the whole time one of the main characters just keeps saying 'Man, we gotta stop and get some CURDS, man.'"

Then we picked up Sam and whizzed back to Madison to see the sixth Harry Potter movie. Even though none of us confirmed it with the others, we all knew we'd be seeing it with each other. Oh, and Sam's fiance, of course. Oh I cried. I cried so hard. Even knowing was was going to happen, I cried so hard. Definitely a good movie--I don't know if I'd say it was the best movie, but definitely in the top three.

Thursday I had to say good-bye to the girls and come home. It took a lot longer than I had planned, but then again, I wasn't really looking forward to saying farewell either. Got home around six and was immediately taken out for more food at Pasquale's, despite my protests that I wasn't in the mood for more cheese. (Cheese curds for an afternoon snack, movie theatre popcorn, Burger King at midnight and cheese curds for breakfast do not a happy tummy make)

Friday was a shopping day: stopped at the bank, got a new cell phone and raided Lane Bryant for some new jeans and tops. Then I got to see the fabled Lenny's, the tavern where my dad will spend the odd hour watching sporting events. Dinner was fish again. 'Cuz its Wisconsin. And that's just what you do on a Friday night.

Saturday was supposed to be the boating day, but it was (you guessed it) drizzly and windy again. So we ended up going to the Outagamie County Fair, where we wandered amidst the prize calfs and hogs, admiring the skills of the local four-aitchers. And had some more cheese curds.

Packing up and leaving was incredibly sad. I miss my family a lot, especially right now. But getting home was wonderful--it was nice to step off the plane and see unadulterated sunshine for the first time in a week. And Kismet has been amazingly well behaved ever since I got home, probably because he's afraid I'll ditch him again. Not forgetting of course, coming home to boyfriend kisses. There's nothing I wanted to do that I didn't get to do. Except next time I come home, I wanna take a boat ride.

I ought to be working right now...

I'm making muffins for breakfast, before I go to church. Happy Memorial Day weekend, everyone!

Last night I was storytelling. I was so tired that it was difficult to focus on the words--instead I found myself constantly on autopilot, which is not good. During one of my stories a face floated through my head and for the next five minutes I was trying to remember where I knew her from. I could see her sitting down in front of a cup of tea, laughing...then I remembered. Luckily, I didn't shout "Eureka!" in the middle of my story, as that would have been inappropriate. For some reason my tired brain had conjured up one of my dorm-mates from London, another woman who was living in my floor, but one I wasn't particularly close to. British. Friendly. Down to Earth. Had a boyfriend in Wales, if I remember correctly. After the story was over I was sitting "backstage", indulging in the minutiae of that Brockley kitchen. The two tiny refrigerators that were always overfull and full of food that no one could get at. Ditto the tiny cupboards with the towels hanging through the handles. The kettle, of course, and the crappy stoves with their crappy electric hobs. Only one hob really worked, so that one got worked all the time...and eventually stopped working so well. The basil plant I tried to keep alive. Then I moved on to grocery shopping, thinking about the Sainsbury's down in the Lewisham shopping center. Only buying what I could carry in my one great big blaze orange Sainsbury's bag. The little boxes of crushed and split tomatoes with olives or peppers inside. The sandwich spreads that were so much better than American ham spread. Never buying ice cream because it would melt on the bus. Or, for that matter, anything that involved preparation beyond my one pot and pan. Baking? Forget it. When I cooked Thanksgiving dinner, I bought a chicken simply because it came with its own pan, and I had to ask my invited guests to bring their own plates. Most of us only had one.

I don't know why I got sucked into thinking about that. Perhaps its because Alison--who I met in that very kitchen--just got back from London, and graciously bought me an "I (heart) London" t-shirt (which I asked for) and a flapjack (which I did not.) Oh, God, I love flapjacks. Of all the foody items I miss the most, flapjacks are at the top of my list. I haven't eaten it yet, but I'm sure once I do I'll be overcome with memories, because I used to eat those things all the damm time. On the underground, walking to class, walking to rehearsal, in rehearsal, in class, late at night coming home from the bars... Oh my.

Then there's my bag. If you've seen me outside or taken a picture of me in a place that requires a purse, you've seen my cream-coloured messenger bag, bought the day I went down to Portsmouth to drool over the Victory. A few days ago it went into the trash. I can darn and patch with the best of them, but if the very integrity of the fabric is wearing away, there's no hope. I bought a new bag, which is almost exactly like this one, except it's green, plastic, and not from Portsmouth. Also I had to take off my Nelson button--the one showing a seventeen year old Lieutenant beating a polar bear to death with a rifle and that's why they're going extinct--and I realised just how dented up and rusty this stupid thing is. It really is the oddest thing to make a button out of, which is why I bought it, but now it's...well, I guess the moment's passed.

I live in Virginia now. I drink sweet tea and I smile whenever I smell honeysuckle (which is all the time these days). I'm relieved that our apartment has emptied itself of college-age students (including one of my roommates) because they are noisy and annoying. I'm a lot happier and a lot more content, and I have a boyfriend and a dog, which are two of the things on my List, so well done for me. And when my boss teases me and asks when I'm going back to London, I just shrug and say--"well, London will always be there."

Ever the Optimist

Our apartment is a cave. Seriously. Cool, even in the heat of summer--if it wasn't for the humidity, we'd leave the AC permanently set to "off." Great for the electricity bill, not so great for those who have a yen to garden. As both I and my roommate do.

But hope springs eternal. Nearly a month ago I went to Big Lots and bought some pots, a trowel, and a few "gardeny" things like a little angel sculpture and a solar-powered garden light, as well as forty pounds of potting soil. Which rode around in the trunk of my car for a month. Then yesterday I stopped a Loewe's and bought some plants. I was excited about finally being able to buy whatever plants I wanted, but sad too, because springtime plant-shopping is something mom and I have always done together. And it's hard to sneak plants into your own cart. Also, as I've mentioned, we live in a cave--even our porch is cavelike--so I tried to restrict myself to the shady plants. Meaning, impatiens and begonias. Oh, and one splurge--a hanging fuschia, which is one of my favourites. I had to buy a shepherd's hook for it, so crowded is our porch already with Amaree's geraniums and pansies. She's more optimistic than I am. Although I couldn't resist just one tomato plant. And a stevia plant. Stevia is a sweet, sweet herb you can use in the place of sugar. Should this one take off, I'm going to put it in my tea and on my cereal.

Tonight, finally, I got everything planted. Well, almost everything--I managed to get too many plants, imagine. Some things never change. Guess it's back to the dollar store for more pots. My impatiens sit encircling a spike, my begonias are tucked cozily into a medium-sized pot, and my tomato is buried up to its neck in a giant planter, sitting in the sunniest place on the porch. Although, I didn't quite have the heart to buy a cage for it yet. Hope may spring eternal, but I think I'll wait and see if this plant will thrive before I invest in any more gardening equipment.

Has Anyone Seen My Motivation Recently?

No London for me. After agonizing about how to spend my 36.25 hours of vacation time, I finally decided to take a few days off around Memorial Day and then go home to Wisconsin in July. But when I went to turn in my vacation request, my boss pointed out that it had been due two hours ago. Fine. Guess I won't be going anywhere in May or June then... Mostly I'm mad at myself for procrastinating until after the last second has gone. Lately I haven't been able to get myself motivated to do anything. Writing? Not at all. Looking at jobs or potentially going back to school? Nope, nothing. Even walking the dog is beyond me most days. all I want to do is sleep and read. In that order. I need a vacation--but, as I mentioned, that ain't gonna happen any time soon.

The problem is, I'm very comfortable here in Williamsburg. My jobs keep me busy, so that I'm distracted from the fact that they don't pay very well...I work harder, not smarter, like yer supposed to. So I have the problem identified, the new problem is overcoming the apathy that led to the original problem in the first place. And yet I want to shout: is there really a problem at at, in the first place (second place)? So what if I'm poor and somewhat sleep-deprived, I like my job(s) and it's summer, so make hay while the sun shines. Yet I know I could be doing better. I need to stop being so comfortable and make another move...to where, to what, I don't know. I don't know when I'm likely to find out either...again, that lack of motivation thing again.

But I'm getting itchy feet...a leap of faith might be just what I need.

A Year In

It's hard to believe that just over a year ago I arrived in Williamsburg. Living in the historical area, secluded and sheltered, walking to the library to check my email and visiting the local coffee shop on Friday night just to have something to do. A year ago or so, when I was coming back from somewhere, I briefly joined a ghosts tour and listened to a haunting tale of a penitential father...now I tell ghost stories and hand sew shifts by candlelight. It's been a good year. A lot has changed, but it's been a good year. A year where I can honestly say I haven't succumbed to any serious bouts of depression, or made bad choices that I regret. The first year in a long time.

Last week I was cleared on my story, so I worked Thursday night. And again tonight and then tomorrow. I need the money and it's good to tell it in front of an audience. We couldn't find the key to let ourselves into the passage tonight, prompting me to go around the break room asking the Randolph House ghosts to help us find it...they didn't, but security arrived in the nick of time with a bundle of historical keys, and the day was saved. My new story is complicated, there are lots of shifts of intention and focus. I would have written it waaaay differently. But it reads a lot better in the actual haunted house, and it's shorter than my old one, so I'm not quite so dead after the last tour.

Recently though, I've become aware of a job opportunity that I want to apply for...I'll say no more about it right now, however. I'd rather wait until I have something to say. This will impact NickiLovesDrama, though, because I am taking my blog private. Starting soonish, you'll have to have a password to get in. I don't want potential employers to see things I've written here, although I've tried to behave myself. So, loyal readers, if you want to stay loyal, send me an email and I'll let you know when NLD becomes an exclusive members-only club.

Makes the world go 'round

It is rather frustrating to constantly have to deal with the problem of not having any money. Any time I think I've got a fairly good handle on it, something happens like Kizzy needs a shot or the first of the month comes around or something. I've got money, it would just be nice to have more of it.

The evening programs are changing format, so instead of telling my story from last year, I'm having to learn a new script, which was provided for me. Only I was on exactly no one's email list, so I didn't find out about it until late. And now I can't get my story cleared to get on the schedule. So. No storytelling. And the militia won't be called out this spring due to budget cuts. Arg. I miss my breeches and the sweet, sweet taste of black powder. Interestingly, George Washington also had a problem with money...he, however, was somehow able to win the war for Independence. I'm sure the military programs here will work things out.

In the meantime, I'm thankful to have a job and a beagle. And spring is here in Virgnia. Daffodils and tulips abound, the forsynthia and appleblossoms are in full bloom. Dogwood soon. Things are so much easier when it's warm and sunny. Work today was long, however, I am tired and sore from sleeping on the ground (imagine) and now I'm going to sleep. Good night.

Meeting the Neighbors

It has been raining for three days straight here, so when I heard the water trickling, my first thought was, "oh, the rain has shifted and is now hitting against the window. What a pretty sound." And went back to my buttonhole. But hot on the heels of that thought was the realisation, "Hey, we don't have any windows on that side of the apartment--ah crap." I ran to our hall closet and threw open the door, only to discover scalding hot water streaming in through a hole near the light fixture. A hole caused by an earlier problem with a leaking water heater...a problem that was clearly revisiting us.

My roommates and I quickly pulled stuff out of the closet and I kicked into Emergency Mode: "Get my cellphone, it's on the table! Grab the stew pots out of the cupboard!" We arranged a makeshift bucket brigade while I furiously dialed the property manager. Kizzy hid under the table, watching us with concern. The answering company blandly asked me if I thought they needed to call their on-call person. "YES, BECAUSE THERE IS SCALDING HOT WATER POURING THROUGH OUR CEILING." I helpfully explained, and gave her my cell number.

Then I ran upstairs, leaving my roommates to deal with the flood. I pounded on the door of apartment #10, until a quiet Chinese man answered. "I'm so sorry," I said, suddenly realising it was quarter to ten, "But I think your hot water heater is broken." He let me in, and I made my way to the closet, weird deja vu ringing through my head as I passed through a familiar layout with unfamiliar furniture and smells. Sure enough, a pipe had worked loose and was gently spilling water onto the floor, creating a delicate puddle around the drain in the center of the linoleum. A drain that was apparently attached to nothing but our light fixture. The sound was that of a soothing table top fountain. In the quietude, it felt strange to be shouty and hurried, but then I remembered the sound of water pouring into our apartment and my poor roommates (probably scalded senseless by now) hurrying back and fourth with stewpots.

I wrapped my sweater around my hand and yanked on the offending pipe, demanding a saucepan, which was all that would fit under it. My phone rang. The property management's on-call person. He directed me to turn off the valves. "WHICH ONES?" "All of them." Ah, calmness in a storm. I twisted the valves into a horizontal position and the flow of water thankfully, mercifully, stopped. Awkwardness. I introduced myself to my neighbors, then realised it was probably best if I just went...There will be no hot water tonight in apartment number 10, but at least there is no new swimming pool in #6.

When I got back downstairs, Kizzy bounded up to me, licking my knees, worried about the crazy show we'd just put on. I petted and reassured him all was well. Nice men with wrenches and joint tape would be showing up tomorrow, I explained. Later, when the boyf called to say goodnight, I got to relieve the craziness. "I'm just glad we were home," I said, "and awake. Could you imagine what would have happened if it had been the middle of the night? Or we had been gone?" Shudder. It took less than fifteen minutes start to finish--and when I got back downstairs, Jordon had already washed our pots.