happy Stalin's death day
Sunday, March 5 2023
Much of the snow from the night before last largely melted today in the sunny warmish (50-something-degrees Fahrenheit) conditions today, though I did a little shoveling to augment some shoveling Gretchen did, particularly out at the end of the driveway where the snowplow and built up a ridge snow. What remained was only a couple inches deep in the triangles I didn't get to. So the Chevy Bolt had no problem getting out when Gretchen set off for a lunch date with Lisa P. at the Garden Café in Woodstock. She returned with a container of potato-tomato-kale soup she'd got me. It was nice and chonky, not a puréed mush. After adding some hot sauce, I ate it immediately.
This evening as I was fixing the teevee room's media server (whose power supply brick had temporarily stopped working) my brother Don called me from Virginia and began the call by asking me to guess why this particular day was so special. Knowing the things he finds important, I asked "Is it Stalin's birthday?" "No," Don declared, "it's the day Stalin died." He didn't seem to be giving me any credit for guessing that the date had something to do with Joseph Stalin. You'd think someone who was living by himself in a couple dilapidated buildings (whose utilities only function due to autopay from the accounts of a woman in a nursing home) would have more important matters to discuss. But it must be lonely out there, and with me so easy to reach on the phone, it's no surprise he's calling me about such trivial matters. I tried to get more information about the place where our mother Hoagie has being warehoused, but all he had was a memorized phone number that seemed to be wrong (that is, I couldn't find anything when I Googled it).
The indoor firewood pile a little before Fern started house sitting in early February. Click to enlarge.
The state of the indoor woodpile today after Fern's firewood use and a couple days of us burning firewood. Click to enlarge.
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