Overcast day; Metallic dandelion stalks; No more vegetable sticks or shrimp in lobster sauce; Pilot light on the floor furnace

It was an overcast day. Clouds and horizon appeared as one seamless gray-white arc. The only rain was a slight, uncoordinated drizzle near lunchtime. Just enough to give the brick steps a glistening sheen.

Today, as usual, I used the frontage road to go to lunch. It's a simple, albeit, mildly crowded way to maneuver. All my customary destinations, such as bank, post office, grocery, and restaurants, are a short distance in either direction. As I traveled north I could see a crane on the Interstate. My first thought was some type of gigantic accident. However, I soon saw that repairs were being made to one of the highway lights: those seventy-foot steel poles with a cluster of high-intensity lamps at the top. The poles have always been one of my favorite examples of what I suppose you could call industrial art. Whenever I see them, I think of giant metallic dandelion stalks. Their path plots a gentle sloping curve that from the air must look like a lost string.

One problem with a crane on the Interstate is that the number of lanes is reduced. Which also means that cars are exiting onto the frontage road. Which means that the mildly crowded road is no longer mildly crowded. There are now crazed, late, irritated drivers, all talking on cell phones, surrounding my poor little asthmatic car. The only thing I could do was to make a quick turn into the parking lot of a Chinese restaurant. This was my last visit to that particular site; I'm convinced they're trying to poison me. It is now almost ten hours later, and I still have a yuckky taste in my mouth. No more vegetable sticks or shrimp in lobster sauce for a while.

The temperature has been dropping all day. Fortunately after lunch, I was able to swing home and light the pilot on the floor furnace. Last year, I could not get it to light. Called a plumber, who came out, crawled under the house, make lots of strange noises that scared the cats, crawled out, said a part was needed, wrote down the model and number, and left. Several hours later, it dawned on me that he never attempted to light the pilot! Then a few days later, I'd got a call that someone needed to come out and "check" the model and number info. A man shows up, comes in and immediately light the pilot! BUT he made one fatal mistake; I was able to watch exactly what he did. I'd been trying matches taped to a stick. WRONG! WRONG! WRONG! The secret is to use cotton balls soaked in alcohol and attached to the end of a bent coat hanger. Such a simple solution! Today, the pilot was glowing within ten seconds. Live and learn, I suppose.

May angels watch over thee this night.

PAX!