The ding-dong at the front door came unexpectedly. We’re a lazy morning family—Dave was still snug in bed in his briefs, Evelyn glued to Octonauts, and I was wandering the kitchen for ingredients. A handlebar-mustached man stood at the door, chest turned toward the side of our house as he gestured. “Hi, are you interested in selling your pile of wood?”
Turns out Scotty the wood guy’s stash is running low, and I admire his boldness. He spied our pile of forty or so log rounds, sized it up, and decided, I need to make them mine. The fort-like fun center the stack has been for Emma and Evelyn will definitely be missed, but gone too will be my fear of one log coming loose and ker-splatting my only heir.
Scotty’s plan is to bring his splitter, cut ten cords of wood, take five for himself, and leave five for us. Considering a quick Google search values a cord of wood at around $300, it’s a win-win for both of us.
Later, as I stood in front of the fridge, I found myself caught in a moment of whiplash—thinking about the fridge we had before. This one, with its failing water dispenser, dribbles like a leaky faucet, barely eking out an ounce at a time. The old one, though? It blasted water with such force it felt like a dentist’s tartar remover, hitting the bottom of the cup so hard it ricocheted out over the rim. I’m not sure which I prefer: the frustrating drip or the unpredictable splash zone.
Another day is officially in the books. My parents are currently mid-flight to London, on their way to a cruise to Norway in hopes of glimpsing the Northern Lights. When I mentioned how great it was that the temperature had risen from 0°F to just above freezing, Paula replied, “Not really.” Apparently, the colder, the better for ensuring no clouds and clear skies. I tried to soften the potential disappointment with a hopeful, “Well, maybe the ballroom will put on a laser light show for you.”
And with that, I think my mind is empty for the night. I hope you’re well and staying warm.
Take care.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 