Folly and Wisdom at 83

Self-mutilation: that is what it is called. Masochism.

There is a rock slope on the north side of our house--you know, just dirt from when the site was leveled, decorated with a single layer of small river rock. The javelinas--you might think of them as porcine demolition experts--navigate up and down the slope, using the stones as traction. They destroy the rock face.

In addition, I have a bird feeder out there, in a palo verde tree, and it would be nice, I thought, to be able to walk down there, so I am putting in concrete stepping stones, after which I will rearrange the river rock.

I believe that it might still be Spring, here, but it is hot, and I need hydration, and that is where the masochism comes in: I am drinking non-alcoholic beer, because I have to go back out there. When I was young and stupid and strong, able to do work like this, people called it, "Near Beer"; a name given by someone with bad eyesight. It is not beer: not even near.

Anyway, I have to buy another compressor to inflate the tires on my handy-dandy garden wagon. The concrete blocks are so heavy the inadequate little critter is squatting down on its let's-pretend tires, and my old air compressor died from a dried-artery condition.
I am not without hope. Something in my head still works, even under the influence of Nowhere Near Beer. I am going to allow the tools to rest until tomorrow morning, when it will be cooler.

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