Light at the End of the Tunnel

Yes, that tunnel you see right there. That was the No-Dead-Weight Irregulars' primary target on last Sunday's geocaching outing because, yes, there is a geocache in there. The team had a pretty full complement — Diefenbaker (a.k.a. Scott), Fishdownthestair (a.k.a. Natalie), NCBiscuit (a.k.a. Linda, but just for this one cache), Old Rob (a.k.a. Old Rob), and this old dude. As far as tunnels go, it wasn't a particularly lengthy one, but it did present a physical challenge or two to conquer before one could access the cache. And there was, quite literally, a light at the end. Scott turned out to be our wade-the-waist-deep-pool-and-scale-the-ladder-to-grab-the-cache man, and he did admirably — until he dropped the cache in the above referenced pool, which required him to come back down, retrieve the cache, and climb back up. I'm sure it was all as much fun for him as it looked, and we each earned a smiley in the deal.

 

Diefenbaker signing the logsheet, moments
before he dropped it into the water below

After we emerged from the not-so-daunting darkness, Ms. NCBiscuit left us for different pastures, and the rest of us meandered Chapel Hill way, where we grabbed a quite a few more caches, most of them of high quality. A fine day of it overall, akin to the days of old, when the full gang could spend the better portion of the day hunting all varieties of caches, fit in all kinds of decent exercise, and lay waste to a passel of decent vittles. This time around, we found a fine feast at Casa Maria Latino Restaurant on Franklin Street in Chapel Hill. We've been there numerous times, and it's always quite good, though for whatever reason, they weren't serving alcohol — a bummer because some of us had been craving margaritas. Don't know whether they lost their ABC license or what, but I hope it's not a permanent situation. More often than not around here, a restaurant loses is liquor license, and the next thing you know, the restaurant has ceased to exist.

On last Friday, after an early workday, I met friend Skyhawk63 (a.k.a. Tom) over in Pilot Mountain to hunt a newish Adventure Lab. It was enjoyable enough, and we completed it readily. I snagged a few additional hides afterward on my way to the old homestead in Martinsville. I hadn't been into Pilot Mountain in ages, and I did discover that, like Eden, NC, they also have their very own Bigfoot. It's a very flat Bigfoot — a piece of sheet metal on the side of a building in the middle of town — but I always do get a kick out of seeing him around as much as I do. To think so many people live their lifetimes never seeing Bigfoot and consequently not believing in him. Well, I've seen, and I believe.

Mount Pilot's very own Bigfoot

Apart from the geocaching, I've done precious little these past couple of weeks other than work like the dickens on a story for a new anthology. Due to so much happening on the homefront, I had missed the official deadline, but I still had a small window to get the story in. I trust it will please the editor. I found it, in the end, a most gratifying tale to write.

And I'll be back hard at the writing in the coming days, for I need to get back on the Georgia book for the Ameri-Scares series. I had started into it a while back but had to put it aside for a time while the wedding, the home renovation, estate business, and the regular day job ate up every hour of every day. I like to keep busy, but I really hope things don't build up to that beyond-intense pace for a long, long time... if ever.

Today, of all things, I did something I've not done in over a decade: I went out and played golf. Friend Terry invited me to go along, and I decided to do it. Years and years ago, I was quite the avid golfer, but these past few decades, it really hasn't been in my repertoire. Today, I scored about as well as one might expect after ten-plus years away from it. But I managed to nail a few beautiful shots, and I really did have a great time. I don't know that I'm going to become a habitual offender again on the golf course, but then... stranger things have happened.

And that's all for now, so sayonara and peace.

Fright Train Is in the House

I received my contributor copy (trade paperback) of Fright Train yesterday, and damn, what a gorgeous book! This one features my new short story, “Country of the Snake.”

The Switch House Gang consists of editors Charles Rutledge, Scott Goudsward, John McIlveen, and Tony Tremblay. Haverhill House is the publisher.

“Out in the darkness a mournful whistle howls, the ground shakes, and steam hisses as the Fright Train pulls into the station. From the Victorian Age to contemporary times, fear rides the rails in these tails set on and around trains of all kinds. Climb aboard and let 13 of today’s best and two classic horror writers take you on night journeys to destinations unknown.”

Fright Train features stories by: Amanda DeWees, Christopher Golden, Scott T. Goudsward, Bracken MacLeod, Elizabeth Massie, James A. Moore, Lee Murray, Errick Nunnally, Charles R. Rutledge, Stephen Mark Rainey, Jeff Strand, Tony Tremblay, Mercedes M. Yardley, Charles Dickens, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; cover art by Makio Murakami

Order Fright Train at Amazon.com here.

Alas, Poor Yorick!

I spent last night at the old homeplace in Martinsville, working like the devil on a new short story that is past its deadline. I made good progress. But as I had managed to fit in very little strenuous exercise last week, the craving to hike after a geocache had settled heavily upon me. The complication here is that, over the past thirteen years, I have found almost every cache for fifty to a hundred miles in every direction. Still, I thought maybe I could figure out some place to go this morning not too far from Martinsville.

Well, I checked the map and saw a few in the Rocky Mount area, about thirty miles north of Martinsville, one of them in Waid Park, where I have hiked and cached several times in the past. This one, called “Alas, Poor Yorick,” has been live for a few months, resides a good ways out in the woods, and no rain was predicted for the morning. Temperatures are in the high 90s this weekend, but, regardless, I set my sights on Yorick for a relatively early solo outing. I figured while I was out there, I could make a little side trip to visit the Ferrum College campus, my old alma mater.

When I left Martinsville, the thermometer read 83℉, and the humidity hadn’t yet reach its oppressive heights. I ended up taking a back road I don’t believe I have ever traveled before, which turned out pretty cool. I always enjoy exploring unfamiliar backroads. Anyway, when I reached the park, the temperature had hit 90℉, and the air was just turning to soup. I set out on the trail, which, since it was mostly shady, proved not too uncomfortable. But the hike was lovely—not too long, not too short, and in places a bit rugged. I found the cache readily, and this made for a most gratifying morning, I can tell you.

Sure enough, afterward, I drove over to Ferrum, about five miles west of the park on Hwy 40. I cruised around a few of my old haunts, which I enjoy doing every now and again. I must say, the campus is considerably more attractive and well-maintained than it was then—not that it was ever not picturesque. I did happen by the site of my first alcohol-related disaster, which is the reason I don’t drink white wine (see “Why I Don’t Drink White Wine”). Actually, I do drink white wine on rare occasion, but it’s not my favorite. Oftentimes, far from it.

Anyhoo, I got in a lot of writing, got in a bit of caching, and there must yet be more writing. So much time, so little to do....

Wait, reverse that.

Now, who do you suppose that is watching me from over yonder?

Why, it's Yorick! As Yorick is not looking so well, I figured I'd help keep him from spreading
so much death around.

A view of the Pigg River from the trail. I spent a lot of time at the Pigg River in my Ferrum Days,
mostly engaged in unfamily-friendly activities, about which I shall say no more.

Old fellow on the trail. Almost as old as Yorick.

Ah, memories. It was on that very landing, on a frigid cold night in 1977, that I lost the contents of my almost
virgin stomach after chugging massive quantities of white wine. I blew the first salvo on Dr. Ward's dining table,
which would have resided somewhere behind that door there.

Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?

A portion of the new look at Casa de Rodan

The house is still a mess, to be sure, but it is slowly and surely coming together. Brugger has moved most of her stuff in, we've junked more stuff than either of us realized we possessed, and life in general is topsy-turvier than it has ever been. Today, I had to serve on a jury — the first time ever, though I've been called numerous times over a lot of years. It was tedious and exhausting, but we acquitted the dude, and it felt like justice was done. Writing deadlines loom, as do estate accounting deadlines, the day job keeps me hopping, the weekends are busy, and I have no idea whether I'm coming or going. It's all for a good end, to be sure. The light at the end of the tunnel gets brighter slowly.

Kitchen backsplash being installed. Almost done.

Attack of the KC88

Old fart in a jon boat. Photo by Linda Enders Roberts

Earlier in the week, the No-Dead-Weight Irregulars had plotted a geocaching outing for today — a challenging tunnel cache in the Raleigh-Durham area. For various reasons, that plan fell through. However, fortuitously, friend NCBiscuit (a.k.a. Linda) gave a shout and asked if any of us would care to go join a little group going kayaking after a bunch of new caches on Lake Holt, over near Butner. Friend Diefenbaker (a.k.a. Scott) and I, being the only two available from our initial gangsome, decided a day on the water might be just the ticket. So, off we went.

Partway there, I received a message from Linda that kayaks at Lake Holt had gone scarce, and I might better call to see if I could reserve one. As it turned out, all the kayaks were accounted for. My only option was a motorized jon boat, so I decided to go for it.

When we arrived at the lake, both Scott and I were quite surprised by the magnitude of the caching group that had gathered — a total of twenty folks, I believe it was. Mostly, it was friends and familiar faces. I made a handful of new caching acquaintances, which is always fun.

Someone suggested the team name KC88 — for Kayak Crew, August 8 — and it stuck. The jon boat, with its little trawling motor, could barely keep up with the fastest kayakers, but while our numbers spread far and wide over the lake, no one got left behind.

Well, not entirely, anyway.

By the time we had conquered 16 or so of the caches, the jon boat's battery decided it had had quite enough of this functioning business. Little by little, it began to wind down, until...finally...I was moving so slowly that kayakers were circling me at high speed, trying to whip up a current sufficient to keep me going.

Somehow, the boat made it all the way to the end, for a total of 21 caches — ten of which the team claimed first-to-find honors, since the cache listings had been published only yesterday. Fortunately for us, no one had yet gone after those on the west side of the lake.

Anyway, Scott and I finally hit the road for the return trip to the Triad — hot, exhausted, and a little sunburnt. Maybe the No-Dead-Weight Irregulars’ next outing, though, will be that challenging cache in the cool darkness of the underground. That's a whole different kind of cool.

Heading out on Lake Holt

Friend Skyhawk63 (a.k.a. Tom) claims his 17,000th geocache find on the lake.
I wonder whether friend Tom goes geocaching a lot.

Friend Colleen84 (a.k.a. Colleen) whizzes past poor schmucks in jon boats

Friends CJZimmie (a.k.a. Cheryl) and Diefenbaker (a.k.a. Scott) about to get lost
in the tall grass surrounding one of the lake’s islands

About half of Team KC88

Ameri-Scares New Hampshire: Ghosts From the Skies!

E-BOOK NOW AVAILABLE!

From Crossroad Press — my latest entry in Elizabeth Massie’s Ameri-Scares series for young readers: New Hampshire: Ghosts from the Skies!

Late one night, a brilliant, blood-colored light wakes thirteen-year-old Heath Sutton from a comfortable sleep. Outside his window, he sees a huge, brightly lit object hovering over the nearby woods. The saucer-shaped craft lowers something into the trees and then, in an instant, vanishes without a trace. To his shock, Heath realizes that he has seen a UFO — an actual flying saucer!

The next day, Heath and his friend Patrick venture into the woods, hoping to discover whether the UFO left behind any evidence of its existence. What they find is a shining metal rod jutting from a tree stump, as if it has somehow grown there. Suddenly, the rod emits an unearthly musical sound, which causes the boys to feel dizzy and disoriented. In terror, they rush out of the woods. Heath recovers quickly, but Patrick seems different — more like a cold, menacing stranger than Heath's best friend.

Now fearful, Heath visits his grandfather, who claims to have once seen a flying saucer himself — a saucer that carried his younger brother away into the skies. As his grandfather relates his disturbing story, Heath believes he sees a shadowy figure lurking outside his grandfather's house. And when he returns home, he receives the greatest shock of all: something weird — something not human — is waiting for him inside!

Order New Hampshire: Ghosts from the Skies from Amazon.com here.

Lake Mike Hike

It has been too long since the No-Dead-Weight Irregulars all got together for a geocaching outing. Today, at last, the usual suspects — Ms. Fishdownthestair (a.k.a. Natalie), Diefenbaker (a.k.a. Scott), Old Rob (a.k.a. Old Rob) and I — headed over Mebane way to Lake Michael, where a couple of relatively new caches awaited our attention. The temperature wasn't as awful as it often is this time of year, though we still had plenty of heat and humidity to go around. We found our two target caches, failed to find a lonely puzzle cache (the last find was in 2014, so it's probably missing), successfully completed a very nice multi-cache at a very old graveyard, happened upon what might have been some kind of Lovecraftian monstrosity lurking along the trail, and knocked out a newish hide in Burlington on the way home. For lunch, we opted for our customary Mexican fare, this time at La Fiesta in Mebane. Pretty danged good, it was.

Seemed like old times, it did. Next week, we're hoping to target a fairly new tunnel cache in Hillsborough. Been a long while for one of those, as well.

A few shots of today's sights follow.

Summer Hours

The camera lens rarely conveys the scale of the interesting things that often appear in the sky. The other day, on the way home from Ms. B.'s house, this lone, very tall cloud came drifting into view. You'd never know it from the pic, but it appeared massive, its vertical contours distinctive against the horizontal bands of clouds behind it. It struck both Ms. B. and I as worthy of a photo, at least.

If last week was a heavy-moving fest, this week was attempting to put things to right inside Casa de Rodan (oh yeah, it's still gonna be Casa de Rodan even if Brugger and her attendant felines are now permanent residents). If anything, it seems as though the more we work and organize, the more the house succumbs to disorder. I know this is kind of the way of things, but two full households merging into one poses unique challenges — as opposed to young newlyweds building things up for the first time, or divorcees arranging new domiciles in place of the old. I'm sure things will eventually come together, but right now, the only word to describe home is Chaos, with a capital C.

Now that the one-year anniversary of Mum's passing has past, I am having to begin the accounting phase of the estate, which poses unique challenges for a soul whose experience with accounting has never been harmonious.

A nice upside is that the office has reverted to Summer Hours, meaning that on Fridays, we only have to work half days, without making up any time. Love that!

And at Pleasant Hill in Martinsville — it's tree-clobberin' time. One of the old cedar trees that had been next to the back stairway since I was a kid had begun leaning damn near to the point of collapse, so I had to have it taken down. Hated that, since it offered so much nice shade, but if it had fallen, the damage might have been severe. Kinda sad, though.

Anyhoo, till next time around.... toodles.

All that remains of once-towering cedar

Merged, Wiped, and Weary

With the majority of the renovations at Casa de Rodan more or less completed, Ms. B. and I officially merged households this weekend. For days, we have been hauling her belongings over with a truck borrowed from our friends Terry & Beth, steadily filling the house damn near to its bursting point. Yesterday was the toughest day, with multiple trips to pack up and bring over her heaviest items of furniture. At the end of it all, the four of us rewarded ourselves with wine and yummies from Yummy Hibachi delivered by Doordash.

I had gone up to Martinsville on Friday to store a bunch of stuff for which there is no space here and to consult with a tree specialist about a big-ass tree that is perilously close to falling on Pleasant Hill. That done, I had a mostly mellow evening. Before I retired for the night, the late-rising full moon treated me to something of a spectacle. I don't believe I've ever seen a moon so big, bright, and vivid, surrounded by clouds that glowed red, pink, and purple. I took a good many photos from the front yard, but as is generally the case, my phone camera was up to capturing only the vaguest suggestion of the brilliant display.

Today, I took a brief respite from the rigors and went geocaching in Apex with friend Old Rob (a.k.a. Old Rob). We got in about three miles of hiking and snagged ten or so caches. It got pretty hot out on the trail, but it wasn't as bad as the past few days — nor as bad as the coming week's heat wave promises to be. Anyhoo, tomorrow, it's back to work as usual and the long process of unpacking, consolidating, and discarding. And dealing with accounting for Mom's estate.

I is tired. Here's a few shots from Apex Lake.

Martinsville Oktoberfest, October 2, 2021

I have reserved a space at the Martinsville Oktoberfest, coming up on October 2. I'll be bringing plenty of copies of my Ameri-Scares novels (West Virginia: Lair of the Mothman, Michigan: The Dragon of Lake Superior, and Ohio: Fear the Grassman!), my novelization of  The Smith Brothers’ movie Young Blood (which was filmed in Martinsville), some of my Dark Shadows audio dramas, as well as The Monarchs, Blue Devil Island, Other Gods, and more.

I figured I’d put together an author banner to slap on the booth canopy, so I came up with the design you see above. I’ve requested a booth adjacent to authors Stephen H. Provost & Samaire Wynne, which I hope will actually happen.

If you’re anywhere in the southwestern Virginia area, I hope you’ll come check out the Oktoberfest — it’s always great fun — and stop by to support your local authors. We’d love to see you.

Overnight Takes a Long, Long Time

With the major house renovation slowly wrapping up, I’m starting to unpack all the shit that’s been stowed in boxes for several weeks. I figured I’d take this opportunity to put my own books, as well as anthologies that include my work, together on the shelves in my office; something I’ve never really done before. There’s another couple dozen more books to dig up, and the hundred or so magazines featuring my short fiction will have to find a different home. Looking at this, I am forced to admit that, after 30-some years, my plan to become a rich and famous author overnight was a failure.

The plaques and critter are awards from the Deathrealm days. Those are happy things.

Ride on the Fright Train

Here is the cover to Haverhill House’s upcoming anthology, Fright Train, which features my new short story, “Country of the Snake.” The art by Makio Murakami is absolute dynamite; at least, I think so. I hope you do too.

The Switch House Gang consists of editors Charles Rutledge, Scott Goudsward, John McIlveen, and Tony Tremblay. Look for the anthology in October. I will post updates as they are available.

“Out in the darkness a mournful whistle howls, the ground shakes, and steam hisses as the Fright Train pulls into the station. From the Victorian Age to contemporary times, fear rides the rails in these tails set on and around trains of all kinds. Climb aboard and let 13 of today’s best and two classic horror writers take you on night journeys to destinations unknown.

Featuring stories by: Amanda DeWees, Christopher Golden, Scott T. Goudsward, Bracken MacLeod, Elizabeth Massie, James A. Moore, Lee Murray, Errick Nunnally, Stephen Mark Rainey, Charles R. Rutledge, Jeff Strand, Tony Tremblay, Mercedes M. Yardley, Charles Dickens, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Conflagration

Back in high school, inspired by my love of miniature sets in the monster movies of the day, I constructed a model city of cardboard and miscellaneous scrap material on a roughly 3' x 4' section of drywall. I made all kinds of buildings, tiny cars, telephone poles (out of broom straw), electrical towers (also of broom straw), road signs...all manner of details in tiny scale. I owned a few custom-made monster figures — Godzilla, Rodan, Angilas, and Damiron (a critter from one of my early short stories, titled "Night of the Firebeast") made by my friend Bill Gudmundson, and the city made a great display setting. At one point, I caught a large praying mantis, which I set loose in the miniature streets. It seems like I took some photos at the time, but if I did, they are apparently long gone.

For my age and skill level, the mini metropolis was a reasonably accomplished effort, but it wasn't long before I found it wanting. So I set it on fire. That part was fun, and I decided that, someday, I'd devote time and energy to constructing a new, far superior miniature city.

Well, it didn't happen right away. Almost twenty years later — 1992, to be exact — during an extended hiatus for Deathrealm magazine (a result of being laid off from my job), I found myself with more time than money. So, between job hunting and writing fiction (I also wrote my first novel, Balak, during that period), I set to work constructing a new miniature city. This one was smaller than the original — I built it on a 2.5-foot square of heavy cardboard — but considerably more elaborate. I planned it meticulously, designed fairly complex buildings, many with semi-detailed interiors visible through windows made of acetate sheets. There were tiny cars, trucks, parking meters, traffic lights, even wires strung from the myriad broom straw power poles. I used many of the same type of materials as the original little city — cardboard, bristol board, broom straw, plaster of Paris, faux foliage from hobby shops... any kind of scrap I could turn into miniature city features. I spent most of year on the project. And looking back, it turned out to be a pretty fair piece of work. I displayed it proudly for a long, long time — often with one or more daikaiju figures towering over its streets and buildings.

Over the years, though, the delicate structures began to deteriorate. Roofs occasionally collapsed, walls came apart, signs fell... and layers of dust accumulated two cars deep in places. It truly looked like the setting of some low-budget post-apocalyptic film.

And now, with Brugger moving in, space at a premium, and massive remodeling happening at Casa de Rodan, it just seemed like the old city had gone too far past its prime. So, last night, after a long bout with making room for new flooring throughout the house, Brugger and I took the old thing out back and set the match to it.

I have to admit it was kind of tough letting go, considering how much time, effort, and creativity I had put into it, but at least there are pics. And the conflagration is documented on video. Here it is in all its fiery splendor.

Overhauling 2

Mercy, what a week. Apart from the day job, the better part of it has been the ongoing labor shaping Casa de Rodan into a new, improved  doomicile. I painted; reattached cabinets to walls; installed light fixtures; removed more trash from the house than the law ought to allow; got married; took 18 metric tonnes of trash to our local collection station; pulled screws, nails, and anchors from walls; and rearranged furniture in three rooms in preparation for painters coming tomorrow. Next week, we get the new flooring, which will require even more extensive moving and shuffling of things. Why, yes, I am, I'm getting too old for this shit.

Yesterday, I put in a hot, rigorous hike for geocaches over in Raleigh, where swarms of huge mosquitos assaulted me relentlessly. That, though, was more in the "fun" department — which has been a bit understaffed for a while now. (Help wanted, don't you know.)

I was in Raleigh yesterday because Ms. B. had one of those artsy-craftsy thingummies she occasionally attends. Now that COVID-19 isn't such an overbearing threat, at least to the properly vaccinated, she's all kinds of excited about gathering with her artsy-craftsy peeps and creating her artsy-craftsy creations.

One of Ms. B.'s artsy-craftsy thingummies: a rendering of a critter she found at her place a while back.

After several of miles of hiking, a fair bunch of geocaches claimed, and a passel of mosquito bites acquired, I met Ms. B. at her hotel, where I did the world a kindness by taking a long, hot shower. Then we hit the nearby Trali Irish Pub, which has long been one of our favorite dining/drinking establishments when we're in that area. It's been quite a long while — since well before the pandemic set in. We both availed ourselves to Trali's excellent fish & chips. These are just as wonderful as ever.

Today, I rose early and immediately set to work prepping the house for tomorrow's appointment with the painters. They're doing the master bedroom, my office, and soon-to-be-Kim's craft room, and each room needed some serious prepping. Pulling all the furniture together, away from the walls, proved a fair task for me, myself, and I. I may be an old fart, but at least when heave-hoing must be done, I still have some ho to heave.

At the end of it all, I figured I'd reward myself with a drink of some sort. We had a splash of Bread & Butter Chardonnay left in the fridge from the other day, so I decided to make a concoction of wine and Clamato juice, similar to the bloody something-or-another I'd had up at Chateau Morrisette a few years back. Now, I remember enjoying theirs, but mine was friggin dynamite. I reckon I'll call it Damned Rodan's Bloody Chard, and it may end up becoming a new go-to drink. Very refreshing, with the Chardonnay flavor quite prominent amid the savory, spicy tomato/clam base. I used one part wine to three parts Clamato juice, and that's all there was to it. Damned perfect.

I'm sure the house is going to be fabulous once all the work is done. I just hope getting to that point doesn't do me in.

Left: Not the cache; Right: Also not the cache; Below: the cache

Overhauling 1

Wednesday, June 23, 2021... a date that will live in infamy. The pic offers clue enough, no need for more.

On the Do-It-Yourself-Renovate-the-Whole-Bloody-House front, progress has been made — at what physical cost, lord knows, since I hobble to bed every evening unable to remember what it was like to walk upright. Wednesday morning, I ended up taking a full carload of trash out to the local collection station, since it was piling up in the yard and both the trash and recyclable cans were filled beyond overflowing. Then I took a load of ancient electronics and several cans of vintage toxic sludge to the local hazardous waste disposal site. Disposing of waste is one of Greensboro's few strong suits, I will say. After the regular pickup of trash and recyclables, the city grabbed about a dozen metric tons of bulk trash from my curb. Now, did that that finally clear the yard? Why, not even close! There's plenty for at least another trip to both collection points as well as another bulk trash pickup. I tell you, though, after all this, I hope Brugger will be able to find a vacant corner of the house to plop her stuff once she crosses the threshold on a permanent basis. There is, for the first time in a decade here, some room to move in certain quarters.

After those labors, I pulled out the fire pit and put the torch to literally a hundred pounds of old paper bearing personal information, which has been filed away since I had more than a few live hair follicles. Near as I can tell, I sweated off a couple or three superfluous pounds. A few more fires like that on hot summer days, and I'll be downright svelte again. I hope I'm never again able to lay claim to such an abundance of fuel.

Today, after knocking off from the day job, I went to work in the downstairs bathroom (now known as the Kraken Room, since we put up a fun, tentacled shower curtain). Hung the new bathroom mirror, installed a snazzy light fixture that we picked up at Lowe's, and put up some shelves. This took a fair portion of the evening, but a lovely Manhattan helped motivate me. And I took a wee break to cook up a ghost pepper–sauced chicken breast that really generated some delicious heat.

You know, until I took to overhauling this old house top to bottom, I had never noticed how caddywhompus the damned thing is. Nothing meets evenly or symmetrically. In the bathroom, the centers of the sink and the light fixture on the wall are offset just enough to be annoying. In the kitchen, the center of the window above the sink and the center of the sink are about four inches off. One of the cabinets on the wall is distinctly crooked — or was, now that I have removed, painted, and remounted it. The fireplace is not centered between the front window and the front door. In the upstairs spare bedroom — formerly my office — no 90-degree angle exists. Anywhere. Makes me wonder if the folks who built Casa de Rodan also built Hill House.

It's tired out tonight, so I think that's about it. Tomorrow, at least, I anticipate some geocaching. At long last, yay!

Before

After (A lot more went to the dump than it looks like!)

New shelves, new lighting, new mirror in the Kraken Room. (I'm hoping I can make the whole thing
a Kraken House without get busted.)