not Pax

It would be a worthless, boring life that had naught to do but comment on the fog, but here it sits again after a few days’ absence, whitening my view. I can see as far as the shoreline seven floors below and no farther.

Ships in such fog proceed less cautiously now with radar, but there are the bells and horns and whistles. The ordinance my grandfather signed as mayor of St. Andrews, Florida a century ago in the early age of the automobile, brought mariner life ashore with its requirement that automobiles in town have a horn, bell or whistle to warn others of their presence.

My life is neither worthless nor a bore: yesterday I disassembled the antique ceiling lamp in the front bathroom of my house, replaced a socket that had stopped working, and put the whole thing back together, turned it on, and it worked properly. If I do say so myself, rather an accomplishment for one who knows self as a stumbling bumbler. And without getting shocked too or causing a blackout throughout St. Andrews.

The fog is thicker just in my two minutes sitting here, now the shoreline below is barely visible. It will clear, though, and I will be able to get on with Friday of a week that’s turning out more frantic than Holy Week. My first moment for the pause that refreshes will be Monday, when we have no staff meeting at church. No, it will be the Sunday afternoon nap.

As well as Sunday preparations, tasks today include using the weed trimmer on the narrow strip right down at the edge of the Bay seaward of MLP, where tall things are sprouting. Must cut them young and tender before they get woody. The receiver inside the housing of a ceiling fan and light stopped receiving the remote signal last week. It’s not the remote, I proved the remote works fine by recoding it to another fan; no, it’s the totally inaccessible receiver, I expected better of Hunter. Matching fans in that room, must replace both then. No, “have both replaced” as I do not do fans. What was that ethnic joke I overheard in Australia nearly forty years ago, “What’s black and crispy and hangs from the ceiling?” An Irish electrician. I never tell jokes, but the thought of changing a ceiling fan and light ten feet up brings that one to mind. My answer is A retired priest trying to save a buck.

We had three “looker” families at the house one day this week, from three different real estate agencies, so maybe that’s promising. Or at least encouraging.

Friday: pox.