Utility men came out today to mark the terrain, and I had no idea why. Current, coming back from an appointment, asked them. They were checking for gas lines because the For Sale signs were going up.

“How far down will they hammer the pole?” I asked. At least they left clear instructions on a permanent medium:

Later, it snowed, covering it up; tomorrow, it melts.

One day the lawn is your lawn. Then one day the sign goes up.

Current wanted me to take some things out of my closet to Zork Storage, so of course I did. Jump, how high, etc. The problem: they were deep archive items, collections of old oversized magazines, six flat boxes arranged by decade. Also, eight flat letter-sized boxes of ephemera, also arranged by decade. We’ll be scanning and posting those later this year, won’t we! Oh ho you know we will. Then I will hose it all down with Ronsinol and give myself a good squirt and we’ll all go up in a fiery pyre.

I was happy to get out of the house, since it had been more staging and polishing and window cleaning. I’d spend some time on the French doors between family room and dining room, trying to get off microscopic flecks the size of flea shite, and it was annoying: I would feel the glass, not feel anything, go to the other side, not feel anything. Where was it? I worked very carefully with a razor blade to see if I could get anything to come up, and if successful, used a sponge with hot water. This on a spot no more than two angels could dance upon.

First stop: Target, to pick up a laundry hamper. Why? There were only FOUR LEFT at the store, and I acted with prudence and foresight. I let the guy scan my barcode, and he went back, then returned.

“Where are you parked?” he asked.

“In the lot,” I said, pointing to the front of the store.

“You might want to pull around.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s a lot of stuff. He gestured at the contents of the cart, which I had assumed were for someone else. Three boxes of jumbled stuff, food in cans, socks, ketchup, milk, plants, probably a magazine and some trail mix and frozen shrimp.”

“That’s not mine,” I said, and if I were a less precise writer, I would say I spoke the words with bemusement. Although I am leaning towards adopting the new definition. But that wasn’t the issue at the moment. He was confused: how could the barcode lie? Then he beeped it again and said “Oh” and I assumed he’d made a mistake.

“I made a mistake,” he said, confirming my assumption. He disappeared and returned with the hamper, all naked, no box. Also, some cooking-prep knives. I’d made the conscious, intentional decision not to get a knife block, but rather get four knives with guards that would do all the jobs I needed. I like them. A knife block would’ve felt like I had to live up to a better standard of cooking than I possess, and would’ve taken precious counter space.

Did I mention that the knives are individually colored? They are. None of that cliched wood-handle stuff for me, not in the hip new place.

Me, in six months: !@$($#!# color's flaking off

Drove to Zork Storage listening to a book podcast about Gatsby, got in, loaded the cart, and headed up. This particular shipment was a problem, because, as I said, it’s deep storage. All the stuff that is not pertinent to the first month of the FRP, or Fred Relocation Project,goes in the back. The sides of the locker have boxes for the household items - towels, soap dispensers, toilet paper, three cases of good scotch, and so on. Rearrangement was necessary. I took my time.

If I'd started the whole project from scratch, I would've used consistent containers, made everything easily stackable and understandable at a glance. Even though I've had five months to do this, I have not imposed a consistent crate paradigm. Used what we had. So it's not as neat as it could be.

If you've ever done this, you know it bites the wax tadpole. On the other hand, it's like a hope chest. That's the box with the new drinkware AND the garlic press and the little plate-display rack-thing, whatever it is. (I have four big plates that have 1920s Italian pasta-ads painted on them, and one will be displayed as a reminder to USE THE GOT-DAMNED THING.) (I promise I will, every Monday, for pasta experimentation.) I already have a Swiffer. Two weeks from today, I start to empty out Zork Storage.

Leaving so soon? Seems like you just got here

As I was driving I got a call from Fred Management, who wanted to make sure I’d gotten the email. I’d just seen the AI summary, something about rescheduling the move-in orientation. I was originally scheduled for 10:30, but the unit was on a 24-hour turnaround. Could I push it back to noon?

“Of course,” I said. “With the provision that you allow me one minor lease violation free of charge.” She laughed and said something noncommittal. Then I asked her about the height of the counters, and how tall a stool I should get. This has been taxing me. I want that stool before anything else, because I want to eat supper in my place on April 1st. There will be nothing much there, and I’ll probably bring a meal from MyBurger up the street, but dammit, on day one I am going to hook up my internet, arrange the sound system, and have a meal. And then go home. Or “Home,” I guess. Who know. Maybe it’ll already have sold.

She said people went with 26” or 28,” she’d occupied two different units and went with the 26”.

“If you don’t mind asking,” I said, “How tall are you?”

“Five seven?”

“Ah. I’m five-four. I do believe I’ll go with the 28.”

We chatted about a few other things, and I made her laugh. The front office seems populated entirely by amiable, enthusiastic, helpful young women. I expect to settle into the position of “Cheerful Old Guy” for the community, which will set me apart from the dreadfully serious keyboard dudes and somewhat distant older folks who have ended up here for reasons they might not entirely understand, or understand perfectly and resent.

I went home, found Current in the storage room cleaning the top of the florescent light that hangs 11 inches off the ceiling. I learned that rearranging things was not an efficient use of time, was it? And it seemed like I did that all the time. I’ve done it twice. Later that night I fixed a dead-bulb problem in the armoire. At midnight I hugged her goodnight and returned to searching for the right counter stool. Before she went to bed she asked I I was going to polish all the switch plates tomorrow and I said that I would and she couldn’t trust that I would so I wrote it on a piece of paper and underlined it.

That afternoon I dreamed that I threw up everywhere, and it was not blood but red paint, and people were coming over to look at the house, and everyone was screaming that I’d ruined everything, again.

It’s 1864.

Ah, the old question.

		To be honest, we don’t care much about what happens over there. But let’s get up to speed anyway. I mean, Oregon is on the other side of the country, which is the other side of the ocean.

The basics:

Denmark achieved some initial victories at the Battles of Mysunde, and Sankelmark, but these successes were short-lived. The Austrians defeated the Danes at the Königshügel and Vejle. However, it was the Prussians who decided the war by decisively winning the pivotal Battles of Dybbøl and Als.

British attempts to mediate in the London Conference of 1864 failed. With the peace Treaty of Vienna (1864), Denmark was forced to cede Schleswig to Prussia and Holstein to Austria.

		Ah, here’s some good news: they’ve developed a weapon so fearsome that it may end war altogether!

		Oh the past has no impact on our times, what do they know about our unique problems, they have no lessons out fears and anxieties or assurances that thus it has always been

Shinplaster monarchs.

		A reminder that it is a Democratic paper, and hence will just wander off into calumny against the abolitionists whenever the mood strikes it. The audience would agree, and if they did not, they did not buy this particular paper.

		News from Sublimity!

It still exists, and has almost 3000 souls. No downtown of any consequence, though. Proximity to Salem, and the presence of cul-de-sacs, suggests it might be a bedroom community now.

That's all I could glean from this one.

That will do. More Seventies at the Wish Book update, and a Substack leftovers around 11. See you around.