Quicksand

I'm losing whatever high ground I might have gained with the few days' extension on our holiday.  Arden did come over yesterday.  Usually so punctual, she was exceptionally late and that threw off my timeline for any Christmas prep I might have considered.  Oh well.  The Kids will be here to eat and play poker, not critique my decor.  I do need to go gift shopping though.

It reminds me of my dad, who used to go looking for a present for my mother on the day, sometimes the night, before Christmas.  "I don't know what she wants!  What do you think she wants?"  My mother had become enamored of Mario Lanza, and I suggested one of his records (probably a 78 rpm in the '50s).  "Really?  That doesn't seem like much of a gift."  "You asked what she wants."  Mother was thrilled and almost wore down the grooves.

I don't know what the Kids want or where to get it.

Mike is starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel.  He figures he has one, maybe two more days of work here (if he's lucky) and is starting on cleanup, sorting the discarded lumber into piles.  Some he'll take and some Florence will choose for a project she has in mind.  Mike has promised to burn the rest, for which I'm grateful.  I won't set a burn pile on my own as I can't move fast enough if a spark should start a secondary fire.  It's all good, but that's two or more shopping days lost.

I'd brought a load of firewood to the porch before Arden arrived.  Wind had blown back the tarps and the wood was wet.  Wet wood doesn't work well in a wood stove, but persistence paid off and the house was warm, that being a relative term.  There was only enough time to take Michael for a walk when my friend drove off so I didn't get more.

I feel like I'm in one of those thriller movies where the protagonist can only watch the clock tick down before the bomb goes off.  I've stepped into quicksand and I'm sinking fast.