What Happens When You Keep Looking Up

Yesterday, after taking care of my Sunday morning outdoor chores, I had put my feet up in my chaise lounge under The Old Man,

and was happily gazing upward, staring at the sun filtering through his canopy, when I thought I won the lottery with Lisa leaving the front door and hopping into her car, informing me in that gap that she would be out for the afternoon, with Georgie and the girls, attending the all female right of passage of my oldest Granddaughter, Scarlett – yes, from TCS – having her ears pierced, in Boulder. I just happened to be speaking with Pete Sheridan – yes, from WTLLM – telling him of this wonderful event, when I happen to notice just how many dead branches were woven among the oxygen generating, chlorophyl rich leaves. I should have ignored them, after all they had been there as long as I have. But I am an Irishman.

My mind was also focused on the “you lazy bastard” look Lisa shot at my reclined state as she slid into her Acura. I never should have sprung for those Million Dollar Woman bionic lenses she had implanted last summer to replace those wonderful cataracts. I knew if I didn’t have something productive to show upon her return, that look would become verbalized. Repeatedly.

So, against the better counsel of Pete Sheridan, who listened in horror as I did some out loud thinking, and did his best to dissuade me, I hung up the phone, got off my biological ass, as opposed to my four footed, mystical one, and hiked down to the back of the old barn, where I retrieved my version of the Chef of the Future –

ladder,

which was much heavier than I remembered as I hauled it through the property to the front area.

I also grabbed my Sawzall, gloves and other pruning tools,

All the while singing the Lumberjack Song from Monty Python.

Claire realized my fools errand and did her best to stall at the water trough, knowing my ambition for physical work usually dissipates with the changing of the wind direction,

But, I was determined, since I already broke my back dragging the ladder and tools to the right spot under The Old Man, and it was a windless afternoon, to do something stupid enough to teach Lisa a lesson for leaving me alone for any length at time.

So, for the next two hours, while Claire watched from a safe distance,

I folded, unfolded, extended and retracted, and then single handedly maneuvered that mighty length of steel ladder to various spots among the canopy branches. (I have videos of the effort, with my ubiquitous color commentary, but I am having difficulty uploading them to FB.)

For the next two hours I hung, precariously, off the ladder top, one handed Sawzall buzzing away, reaching for those dead branches I really should have moved the ladder to get to, and cursing the bark bits that kept filling my eyes because I was too dumb to go find my safety glasses. But Spaghetti would have been proud, and most likely was spiritually holding the foot of that ladder steady because he knew I was channeling him the whole time, and he didn’t want to have to explain to Posey or my dead Mom how I unexpectedly ended up on the far side of the veil, directly and spontaneously communing in spirit with them on a fine Sunday afternoon (assuming, of course, Pete Sheridan’s Daniel Webster entreaties could get me past the Pearly Gates).

When it was all said and done, this dead wood carefully amputated the dead wood from The Old Man – with his permission and a peremptory hug of course

and then dragged and stashed the felled branches over to a fence,

Where they will stay until I use them for kindling during the winter, or until Lisa gets tired of looking at them and makes me drag them off to the dump.

Surprisingly, I managed to complete the tree surgery without amputating something I may need for another day.

And after swallowing down a handful of Aleve, I got to look into my chirping phone and see what Lisa, and the girls, were up to in her absence.

Yes, I broke the unbreakable rule and allowed my wife to appear in a photo, but that’s what she gets for leaving me with too much time on my hands. Plus it was a cool way to capture the females in one shot. It also proves that my wife is as real as Big Foot.

Yes, Scarlett is adorable. (And now forever bejeweled.) But we made sure of that by acquiring her Australian Mom’s model genes (G is also a handy photographer).

Well, that is about all of the highlights to my Sunday here at Casa Claire. And my back is screaming as I complete this blog and get ready for my morning rounds and quicky chores.

Then Legal Work, which usually drops that pain to my lower extremities.

I hope you fine, five readers enjoyed God’s Day of Rest. Maybe you read a good book.

So, let’s take a deep breath and get out there and knock Monday on its head.

And no matter what else we get up to, let us make today a great one.