Quacker plus no heater = bonfire standing between us and death in 26 degree Nowheresville.
OK, we had a space heater, which we could use if the generator was on. But it heated a 2x2 foot area, so I wore triplicate layers. And a smile, surprisingly.
Island Boy ("Me? Cold? Nah!") played the show-off in short sleeves. Here he is with his requisite machete in the dry creek bed feeding our dry pond.
Eric used the dry pond time to skid load out all the debris. Cowboy really, really, really wanted to drive the skid loader. Note the beverage in Eric's hand, for what he called the "Budweiser holder" in the pilot box (he was drinking a Muscle Milk). Also note the roll bar. The skid loader wouldn't start unless the roller coaster lap bar was down either. Wise designers.
Eric blazed an Ironman-training running trail around the property. The dogs and I tagged along. That's me holding the cedar log inadvertently split by the skid loader. And dodging projectiles.
"Kiss me, before I freeze into a solid chunk of ice."
Stories — actual words — to follow, on Sunday the 2nd. (Which has now occurred. So click HERE.)
Happy New Year, y’all!
p.s. Be first to hear about new book releases, 1-2 times a year (don't worry, I won't use your email for anything else)! <-- click here
, Pamela Fagan Hutchins
, skid loader
, travel trailer