I love lists and listing. I'm a compulsive to-do lister, and sometimes I write things already done just so I can cross it off. So satisfying.
Our Primitive Pursuits mentors encourage us to make lists of all kinds: lists of questions, lists of observations, lists of possibilities. So, just the other day I decided to start listing each month the birds that I see around the yurt. I'm already up to a species count of nineteen! I think the practice of starting the list and the desire to add to it has even opened my awareness to the birds around us. Exciting recent additions have been a pair of ruffed grouse, a brown creeper, and Phil saw a kestrel this week, in the act of killing a junco! Apparently our attraction to the smaller birds is attracting attention from some of the larger ones as well. I'm grateful for the diversity.
Another mystery solved: The other night Phil and I both woke suddenly, hearing a crash and feeling the yurt shake a little. We were both startled, and Phil looked all around the yurt, inside and out, for the source of the shake and rattle. After a while, with no answer, we started to question the next option: "Are we going crazy?" We'd almost convinced ourselves that it was our imagination, or else a very localized earthquake. Then, just last week, Phil went under the deck to check on some storage. He found that the recent frost and thaw had heaved the posts a little (which are now set on concrete footers, as opposed to sunk into the ground below frostline), pushed them crooked, which had popped a 2x12 plank out from underneath, breaking it off its screws. Hence, our midnight shake and crash!
Thankfully, yurts are relatively light, so even a full collapse couldn't really damage anyone or anything. As it is, we can probably push the deck straight using some brute strength and leverage, and we'll get some bigger lag-bolts to hold it tighter this time.
Now, an ode to my car. Oh, Saturn of plastic blueness! You began a life with me in Chicago, then to the rolling green hills of Lancaster, ferrying me to horseshows and lessons. I drove you to Colorado, pushed the speed limits, returned home with my only ticket ever. I've slept in your trunk, sung loudly out your windows. Now with studded snowtires, you cheerfully start in the sub-zero morning temperatures, and climb the steep and snowy Hammond Hill, getting me to work safely and on time. Out to Florida for your second time, you're now boasting 163,000 miles. I must say, I'm pretty impressed. You share the road with many unworthy.