Tag Archives: sorting photos

An Unholy Mess

10 Oct

For reasons known only to himself, whenever I find myself in the middle of an unavoidable royal mess, The Squire will decide to turn it into an even bigger mess.

When we were in the middle of remodelling the kitchen, and I had pots and pans all over the dining room table, spices in boxes on the sofa, and canned goods in the guest room, my dearly beloved husband decided to push all the stuff off one end of the dining room table and sort out his genealogy pictures.

This morning, he went into the attic to bring down the bins of winter clothes, and discovered a carton marked “pictures to be sorted”. These of course, could not possibly wait until I had gone through my clothes, but had to be handled at once. We now have umpteen stacks of photos – the kids, grandkids, aunts, uncles, and Heaven-knows-who-those-folks-are all over the den and the table. In the meantime, I am trying desperately to decide what gets kept and  what gets donated.  And, after looking at some of these pictures, there is another huge pile of I-couldn’t-possibly-had-that-since-I-was-at-Hopkins! We found a shot of one of the granddaughter’s first birthday party; she is studying for her Ph.D. and I still use that tablecloth. Might be time for a new one. The table is 100 inches long, so I’ll have to hit Joann’s for 3 yards of something.

Just thinking about it makes me tired – and I can’t go to bed until I clear off the bed. Eh. Just dump it all back into the bin.

 

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Back – Again

4 Feb

The Squire and I went up to Bel Air yesterday for yet another injection in my back.  Generally, I can drive myself up and hop in the car to go home, but the last two trips I’ve had to have an escort. This trip did seem to be a bit more involved than the last few, and I had more trouble walking than I anticipated. My leg felt fine on the outside, but when I got up to walk across the recovery room, my muscles were numb on the inside, and I moved like a person with an ill-fitting prosthesis.  I had intended to swing by Joann’s and select a pattern to make our great-granddaughter a spring dress, but The Squire put the kibosh to that, and insisted we go straight home.

Just as well. He helped me up the stairs, fixed me an ice bag, and I slept for two hours.

I was showing my doctor my thumb, and told him I had regretted ever having it done. He admitted “it’s a tough one”, and referred to it as Game Keeper’s Thumb. Apparently, back in jolly ol’ when the Laird shot a mess of pheasant, it was the Game Keeper’s job to go collect them all and wring the necks of the birds that were still alive. (Not exactly a Game “Keeper” in my opinion, but who am I to argue?) He would grab the bird’s neck with both hands and turn in opposite directions.  Eventually, the twisting motion would dislocate one thumb or the other, and the poor guy would be out of a job. I guess he could feed the chickens or something. The Squire said he just grabbed the chicken by the head and swung it around a couple of times.

I am almost down to the bottom of tub #2, and once this is empty I’ll take a break for a while, and maybe work on a dollhouse. I have one that desperately needs to be finished up, and is very close, except for a bloody thatched roof.  At least I can get The Squire to help me with that; sorting photos was strictly a solo performance.

 

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