satisfaction

This was one of those rare weekends that we accomplished a few of the things on our never-ending list and still found some time to relax on the front porch with a good book. April's grandma Mayno needed some work done on her roof and gutters and I volunteered to help out along with April's dad and brother. It took a few weeks before the stars aligned and everybody had a free Saturday, so it kind of hung over my head like a dinner party you say you are going to but then spend all day trying to come up with a good excuse to miss. I groggily rolled out of bed at the appointed hour and gathered my tools, ladder and the Hot Tub Time Machine DVD we had borrowed from April's brother. After kissing April goodbye, I climbed up into my truck, put on some Ted Nugent (Double Gonzo Live 1977) and rolled out to complete my mission. Made a pit stop at Bojangles for my usual spicy chicken biscuit and a coffee to get my mind right and arrived on scene about 15 minutes tardy. I was pleasantly surprised to see April's brother had brought along reinforcements, his buddies Barlowe and Dale. Once we got down to the business at hand, 5 dudes made quick work of replacing the siding and gutters and even scrubbed the house siding to make Grandmas house look a little spiffier. Feeling all good and accomplishful, I checked the time and saw there was still plenty of time to make the Lenoir Blackberry Festival. April and I had been looking forward to checking it out and eating some good festival food, but I was pessimistic about the chances of finishing the roof in time to get over there. Sweet April promised she wouldn't go without me, which was good because I would have exuded a subtle but noticeable aura of resentment if she had.

Once I had washed the stank off in the shower, we made it over to Blackberry Fest 2010 during the hottest, most humid day I have experienced yet in Caldwell County. The refreshing effects of the shower were undone instantly the second I stepped out of April's car into what felt like the devil's armpit. We made the rounds at the festival, surveying our food options and trying to decide which festival deliciousness we would be stuffing our faces with. Some of the finalists included foot long corn dogs, philly cheese steaks with angus beef and big sloppy gyros. We wandered the food stands in ever smaller circles like two sharks encircling their prey before deciding on the combination cheesesteak/gyros tent with a line long enough to vouch for its tastiness but not long enough to make us move on to easier pickings. At the front of the line, we were greeted by a large gypsy lady who looked really eager to get her gypsy hands on our cash money. We ordered two gyros, a water and a lemonade and my jaw almost hit the hot pavement when she asked for $24 dollars. That may not sound like much to those accustomed to San Francisco prices but $24 is practically an anniversary dinner here in Caldwell County. I grumbled something to April about how we should have gone to a food tent that actually listed their prices, and as I handed over the loot I swear her gypsy eyes gleamed like fireflies. We found a shady spot and sat down to devour our lavish lunch, they tasted really good but each bite was tinged with a slight bitterness at having been had by the wily gypsies and their unpriced festival food. As I dabbed the tsatziki sauce off my beard, we decided to try and sample just a few of the wines from the 6 or so vineyards that had tables at the festival. A few some pretty exotic offerings like blackberry, elderberry and pomegranate wines, we ended up getting a bottle of the Granate Red from Raintree Vineyards. April had been talking about going to the library for a couple of weeks, so I was more than happy to enter the sweet air conditioned comfort and try and find a few good reads. April gathered a mix of Tom Robbins' newest, The Omnivores Dilemma and Jennifer Wiener; I loaded up on Stephen King short stories and we left excited about the prospects of sitting on our porch with a cool beverage and burying our faces in well worn hardbacks.

When we checked our mail on the way home, I was excited to find the new ball joint I had ordered to repair the broken steering linkage on my ancient riding mower. I had planned on getting some help fixing up the Lowe's mower but I felt drunk on competence after helping out with the roof in the morning so I decided to try going it alone. I opened up the garage, put on some reggae and rolled up my sleeves. I had to take apart half the engine compartment to get at the steering shaft and gear, but once I had everything disassembled it wasn't a big deal to remove the bad ball joint and install the shiny new one. I was pretty surprised how smoothly the mower surgery went and even more surprised when the riding mower roared to life on the very first crank. See, I hadn't been able to mow in almost 3 weeks while I waited for the obscure part to be delivered and I was growing more than a little depressed over the jungle rising up around our house. So after I had topped up the gas and had April roll her car out the way of the garage door, it was time to get down to some hardcore mowing. I put on some earmuffs over my headphones, cranked up the Nugent and cut grass for about 5 hours straight; stopping only to reload beers. I'm pretty sure I mowed down at least 4 acres of unruly grass before the sun dipped down low and I decided to call it a day. Fixing the roof and my mower had left me feeling like I could repair the Hubble space telescope, so it was with a smug sense of satisfaction that I settled down into my chair on the porch to enjoy the Saturday sunset with another beer and some Steven King.

Sunday was equally productive but I am running out of steam to give it the words it deserves. We peeled, quartered and boiled some apples down into caramel apple jam and applesauce. Watched Spain win the World Cup 1-0 over Holland with a wicked volley from Iniesta in extra time. And Clyde discovered the forbidden joy of eating half of our cantaloupes from the melon patch. I had read that one way to cure a dog from killing chickens was to tie a dead one around their neck and make them wear it for a few days. So Clyde became Mr. Melon Head for the rest of the evening...

this melon necklace is itchy!

clyde feels the shame