Last full day this trip...

When Shiloh got me up this morning, it was sprinkling slightly. As we walked around the property, I noticed some new mushrooms had popped up, but the outbreak of Milky Caps is apparently over. In fact, a number of aged Milky Caps still on the ground are themselves encrusted with a fungus, almost as if they're trying to become lobster mushrooms.

I didn't pay too much attention to the new mushrooms, as Shiloh has developed this annoying new trick of jumping at any spot that I lean down to look at closely. I don't think she's aiming at mushrooms in particular, but anything that finds itself within the purview of my examination had better be ready to deal with pouncing dog.

I've got the bedroom window open and can both see and hear how that sprinkle has changed into a steady rain. Hopefully the rain will let up so I can go out and take a few photographs of the fungus.

The window is open because I finally figured out how the designer of the house set up the attic fan, which is a fairly large ventilator behind a louvered panel in the ceiling on the bedroom end of the house. Turning on the fan sucks air from the house and into the attic, and from there, it goes out the vents at each end of the house.

When I turned the switch soon after arriving, with the idea of sucking in a bunch of cool early morning air to bring down the inside temperature, nothing happened. Checking the fuse downstairs showed it to be in fine shape. My dad suggested going up into the attic to make sure the vents were open and not nailed shut, which I did yesterday, and in doing so I happened to find another switch on the side of the fan motor.

I put four large bags of trash out for pickup this morning, though I suppose if I had been going for maximum efficiency, the job would've only required three. As the refuse truck hadn't yet arrived when I got up, I did a fast run through the house and had not much trouble filling a fifth bag. If I really put my mind to it, I could probably go through the house and fill a whole ro;; of bags, but there is more to life than bagging trash, and I don't want the old man to think I'm trying to take over the household.

The house we've been trying to sell since April continues to hang on every conceivable snag one can imagine, and probably one or two that one cannot. The latest news is that we're going for a closing this coming Friday. (Gee, maybe the seventh (seventeenth?) time is a charm!)

I've been drinking commercial kombucha pretty steadily for the past week or more. The batch that I started to make with the mother that I brought from Texas turned up some patches that I couldn't be sure weren't mold, so I pitched the batch. (On the other hand, there is a bottle (of two) of organic apple cider vinegar in the pantry that has a couple of bottle-diameter-sized, crepe-thin diaphanous items inside that I'm pretty sure are scobys of some sort, so maybe there's a tradeoff there, somewhere.) In any event, since taking a regular swig of kombucha in the morning, my stomach seems to have settled down.

I've got a checklist, so before I start on the translation I got yesterday, perhaps I should turn to and strike a few items from the list, and then go visit the old man. I plan to hit the sack early tonight, with the intention of hitting the road early enough to be on the Jersey side of Manhattan by the time the morning rush hour begins.

Cheers...

It's in the genes!

It's hard to open a drawer around here without something of interest popping out, as my mom apparently not only kept most of the documents and correspondence she received, but also never got around to filing it properly. Just now, I was vacuuming the furniture in my old man's room, and when I opened the sliding door to a little niche that was on what used to be my mother's side of the bed, I found a copy of Du Coté de chez Swann and a letter I wrote to my mother from camp when I was 15 or so.

I used to behave in much the same way, except I file things in their place, until I got to something of a watershed, where burning a certain set of correspondence was the only way I could see to... does one "achieve" catharsis, I wonder? Anyway, you get the idea.

It's been a pretty slow day. I have, in fact, mostly been cleaning the house and napping, as my deadline for the work assigned yesterday is comfortably later. The bedrooms - except for the one I'm inhabiting - are done, and the den is complete.

I should probably start to pack the car.

Cheers...

About Locust Valley...

Naturally, as I am not a native son, I am probably not the best person to provide insight into this burg, but then again, in a world where war correspondents can get hired without knowing the difference between a spent and an unfired round, anything goes.

At least I can provide some insight as an outsider.

Locust Valley is a sleepy little town located between Glen Cove and Oyster Bay. There are multimillion-dollar estates around, along with swanky conference centers and golf clubs, and yet a morning drive down Forest Avenue - the main drag in town - reveals a number of scruffily dressed, swarthy men, standing nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, ready and willing to work for what I presume is cash money.

The bank where my parents have their account closes at 3 pm most days, staying open until 5 pm only one day per week.

Next to the bank there is a Gristedes with truly outrageous prices (I think you'd pay less for most items at convenience stores in Texas). Then again, a convenience store in Texas won't have the selection of olive oil that his store has (rough guesstimate: 4 shelves high x 15 feet wide). You want extra-virgin olive oil from, specifically, Tuscany? They got it. You want extra-virgin olive oil pressed from Kalamata olives? They got it. They also have a wall of vinegars that ranges from acetic acide diluted to consumer grade, to fine Balsamic vinegars, to various other flavored vinegars.

How they have managed to stay in business is beyond me, as there are a King Kullen and a Stop 'N Shop just down the road a couple of miles, and other, bigger stores (e.g., Pathmark) if you don't mind a 15 minute drive.

Things left to do in the next couple of hours:

• Pack the car!


• Vacuum the last of what needs it.


• Clean the kitchen


• Drop off the old man's ditty bag at a neighbor's


• Shower, sleep


• Check the house to make sure lights are off, etc.


• Hit road

Cheers...