Parents are the bones on which children cut their teeth.
Peter Ustinov
Bones creak, sinew torn from many injuries stretch, joints crack, limbs try to bend in vain where they used to. That is just getting out of bed.
Gathered thermos, kettle and tools needed for the morning rituals, carefully balanced as I go down the stairs one at a time.
Cats need feeding, boards for the fire need cutting, then splitting into kindling. I get through 3 cuts before I lose the feeling in my right arm.
Even working my thumbs is difficult to type these words. Needs doing my recurring theme.
I rest for the moment before I go back to cutting. I will burn one fire today, to warm my water for coffee and give the house a little warmth
Contented cats crunch through their morning meal as I make the next two cuts.
On to chopping kindling. I am sure may consider that an art. I call it focus all attention or lose a digit.
Carefully the wood strands get carefully placed in the fire one by one. Todays fire starter is two crushed plastic bottles that refused to light.
Some how the fire lit, I don’t dare take credit because all my attempts seemed to fail.
In another 30 to 60 minutes my kettle might boil. For now I plan my work, it’s a trade off.
I must do something substantial so I might play a video game without guilt. It is after all Sunday.
Litter boxes, they needed doing. 400 pounds of wet sawdust from pellets. I went out side to warm inside to burn more.
Down to the van grab another bag of pellets refill the boxes redistribute and collapse.
The fire is much too warm to sit. I am going to fill the thermos and run. Gen and gas next.
It’s almost done breakfast and cold brew coffee poured, vitamins next.
Then kill the banished
