Oh, yesterday I was feeling so smug. The (paid in full) contractor's receipt had arrived with Saturday's mail, and his body soon followed early Monday afternoon. "We'll deliver a load of rock either later today or tomorrow. I just had to be sure they could make it out and back."
Late that afternoon, I was in the back of the house when I heard what I assumed to be the truck dumping.
I dashed for a window. False alarm. It was the neighbor's tractor combined with my heightened expectations...
Tuesday, I again heard what I thought were dumping noises. I casually finished the sentence, then went to the window. ROCK, real, chunky, clunky rock was hitting the drive.
I relaxed. I'd been worried that it might get too icy for me to make the drive, and I'd miss the critique meeting Sunday. I'm dying to hear what Kevin says about my book!
Never pays to get too smug... It is NOT just a localized ice build-up. The monitors for the group issued "don't travel on Sunday" warnings and suggested email hook-ups. I'd already been sending to the author of the book I'm reading. It is 121 pages, and I'm on page 50, reading slowly and carefully, taking notes, taking the job seriously.