Found an old, mouse chewed pack of Number 7’s in the wall cavity above the tub. I gutted the bathroom last week. It’s been re-wired. I’m waiting on a friend to do the plumbing. I’ll do the drywall and tile once he’s done. I don’t smoke so I don’t know if Number 7’s still use a black cat staring off into the distance as their figure head. I do enjoy the pretty blase warning -by today standards- Hey, this might be bad for your health, if you smoke too much of it.
The designery’s stove is my favorite on the farm. Wide mouth; easy to build up kindling. Alex’s method of putting a hunk of wood left and right of the walls; bridging a few pieces across, giving ample air flow for the fire to grow. This stove is always a pleasure to light in the morning.
Go next door to the rehearsal hall and groan it out with the long, narrow Fisher. The dampers are great once there’s a good base of embers but many cold mornings are spent cursing over kindling that won’t quite light in the confines of this steel hallway. I was fortunate to have a pile of birch bark this winter. Oily birch combustion.
Head down to the cookshack and light that fire as well. A half hour or so of producing heat. I’m pretty glad the production office side of the red house is out of commission; that stove was fucking murder.
I didn’t have time to re-glue and cure the tear in my boot. Saturday night I wrapped black hockey tape around it and announced to Lisa, with dry feet, I felt unstoppable! By the 8pm show the hockey tape was peeling and absorbing the melting snow. With an epic fall in the forecast for Sunday; I was thrilled to find a roll of pro-gaff tape in the Designery.
‘When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.’
We did the last three shows Sunday night through the craziest blizzard I’ve ever experienced – not on my snowboard. Half, if not more, of the audience didn’t make it. The ones that did were rattled but relieved. One guy was wearing ski goggles.
We definitely had almost a three foot fall. All our trails filled with soft powder. The whole night we wadded, as fast as possible, through knee deep snow. I was exhausted by the closing party. Perched on the kitchen counter; nodding and smiling, hugs and congratulations. A weary ‘We did it!’ satisfaction, all the while keeping one eye on Luka as she kept trying to sneak over and lick the gas stove’s grease trap.
1:30am we said goodnight and headed up the hill. The snow was up to Luka’s chest. It fell so fast it hadn’t time to compact and she had to cut through my trail. By the time we reached the cabin it was more effort than a 10 year old dog should exert.
The following morning I left her in the cabin, found a shovel and dug out a trench starting at the cookshack.