Six years ago, at the onset of our seventieth winter, the Bride and I reached an accord: in ten years time we would eliminate so much of the material accumulation of the past forty-four years that we would be able to gracefully sashay into accommodations more suitable for a pair of octogenarians. Read that, "downsizing" and "elderly". We would tackle one room each year and dispatch to some charity what we couldn't triage to our own offspring.
In principle, that proposal was worth-while. In practice it has been about as successful as the Ford Edsel. Six years later, we are still struggling to check off one room. As batting averages go, we're below .100.
Our dear Son, the number cruncher of the clan has floated discrete suggestions that we ought to be talking to a financial advisor, a realtor, and....(gasp) research"community-living" facilities. His counsel is wise, but revolves around the biting of a bullet that could break our teeth.
On the other hand, one and only daughter advocates an alternative, to wit: "Stay as long as you want. In your will, just leave us enough money to hire a dumpster to haul everything off." My reaction to this was, "a (as in one) dumpster?" It will require a fleet of dumpsters to merely dispose of the contents of two basement storage rooms!
Obviously, Daughter has the more comfortable solution. It is far more consistent with this rennaisance geezer's work ethic, especially when contemplating a hole in suggestion number one. The hole in question is located just around the corner from this writer's "man cave"; known alternatively as "The Dungeon".
This cave is our afternoon refuge wherein resides amateur radio equipment, the pc desktop, and a couple of walls covered with "attaboys" and bookshelves filled with "how-to's" and "been-there's" of one kind or another. It is also the incubator for this monthly blog. Here is where ideas hatch.
But to get here from there, a small ripple in the carpet must be crossed. That ripple was created by a break in the water line beneath the concrete, years ago. Since then, the piping has been re-routed, but the ripple remains. And with it comes the undying, daily reminder of what must be done to make it disappear, and permit this abode to pass the ever-critical eye of a house inspector. If he sees it, he will doubtless say, "You know, the hole beneath this ripple is a reflection on your character."
That accusation would skewer me to the paneling and carpet, which must be scrapped so that the hole can be patched... to appease that awaiting one-man judge and jury. Translation: beau coups bucks, dear reader. Add to that, a ton of effort to pack and move, and you have all the makings of a twenty-first century Prometheus; bound by the inertia of hard choices.
It is while contemplating this dilema that I am reminded of the wisdom of my dear friend of many decades, Ben S.: "There are some days when it's too cold to work. There are some days when it's too hot to work. And, there are some days when it's too nice to work."
Riding that train of thought to the next station, it could be argued that procrastination has very powerful incentives. Today is much too nice. Tomorrow is another day. At least that's what Scarlett O'Hara told Rhett Butler.
This cave is our afternoon refuge wherein resides amateur radio equipment, the pc desktop, and a couple of walls covered with "attaboys" and bookshelves filled with "how-to's" and "been-there's" of one kind or another. It is also the incubator for this monthly blog. Here is where ideas hatch.
But to get here from there, a small ripple in the carpet must be crossed. That ripple was created by a break in the water line beneath the concrete, years ago. Since then, the piping has been re-routed, but the ripple remains. And with it comes the undying, daily reminder of what must be done to make it disappear, and permit this abode to pass the ever-critical eye of a house inspector. If he sees it, he will doubtless say, "You know, the hole beneath this ripple is a reflection on your character."
That accusation would skewer me to the paneling and carpet, which must be scrapped so that the hole can be patched... to appease that awaiting one-man judge and jury. Translation: beau coups bucks, dear reader. Add to that, a ton of effort to pack and move, and you have all the makings of a twenty-first century Prometheus; bound by the inertia of hard choices.
It is while contemplating this dilema that I am reminded of the wisdom of my dear friend of many decades, Ben S.: "There are some days when it's too cold to work. There are some days when it's too hot to work. And, there are some days when it's too nice to work."
Riding that train of thought to the next station, it could be argued that procrastination has very powerful incentives. Today is much too nice. Tomorrow is another day. At least that's what Scarlett O'Hara told Rhett Butler.
