Cider Press Hill

The best laid plans

Sunday, 9:35 pm

By Kate





So, this was the big weekend. The lad was to leave on his hiking trip at 5:00 AM on Saturday. He went out on Friday evening to spend the last remaining moments with his sweetie. I asked him to be home fairly early—in his mind 10:30 was fairly early. I can’t blame him, though. He will be gone two weeks and, when he returns, she will be leaving for Scotland for the next five weeks. While still terribly excited about his trip, he had a hard time being terribly excited about her trip.

So, anyway, he wandered through the door at 10:30 and immediately said, “We have to go out and get a few things.” Having already spoken with the folks he’s going with, I knew they planned to make a stop at a sporting goods store in Colorado Springs. That eliminated the need to find anything open that late at night. But we did make a flying trip to the ATM for some cash.

Back home, he announced he had to wash a few items. By this time it was 11:00. I reminded him that he needed to be up at 4:30AM and ready by 5:00. “No problem,” he said.

Four hours later we were both still awake and he was still packing his stuff...and unpacking...and repacking. He finally lightened the load in the backpack enough so that it wouldn’t be too much to haul up mountains. By 5:00, he was cleaned up and ready to go, too excited to be sleepy. He figured he’d sleep on the plane, though.

As soon as he was out the door, I crashed. And thought, “when I wake up, I’ll get started painting the fence.” That was my plan this weekend. Paint the fence.

When I woke, my little atomic clock by the side of my bed, which shines the time and temp on the ceiling, said 98.7°. That made me groan a little, but I got my brushes and paint together and bravely went out. Not much more than 15 minutes later, I sat back on my heels, while sweat dribbled into my eyes, and thought, “I’m gonna die out here. This’ll wait.”

This morning I woke and looked up on the ceiling. It was already 93.6° at 8:30. A half an hour later it was 96°. “Forget it,” I said. And that was just as well—a couple of hours later it started pouring out with wild flashes of lightning and window rattling thunder.

The fence, clearly, does not want to be painted.

Instead, I cleaned the house and dragged out the new templates I’d been working on a couple of weeks ago. Put some finishing touches on them and here we are again. Things did not go according to plan at all this weekend, other than getting the lad launched and safely out to his destination. For that I’m happy. But the fence is still bare wood—and wet again. According to the weather forecast, the next rain free day will be Friday. I hope that doesn’t change between now and then. If I can’t get the fence painted sometime during these next two weeks, I’m going to flip.

But, according to the forecasts, the lad will enjoy clear skies and comfortable temperatures for most of his trip. I will celebrate that!