Nine days left until I am home with Buck, Molly, the raccoons, and Colvos Passage. Nine days until I have to start packing up things for a garage sale / move to mom's (the stuff will move, not me). Nine days until I am back in my community, singing in the choir, waking to the crow-song, smelling the mud flats.

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I’m moving into the massage hut today. I only know of one staffer here that reads this blog, and I know he won’t rat me out. (You know who you are.)

I had this epiphany the other night. You see, my little cabin isn’t heated. Now that I have taken my bed home, and I’m sleeping on an inflatable floatie meant for lounging in the pool, I long for something more comfortable. Something with actual cushioning that doesn’t squeak when I turn over. A ha!

The massage table. Padded, smooth and adjustable, this is the perfect place to sleep. And given enough pillows under my belly, I can actually lie face down without any more back pain that usual. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve slept on my stomach? Years. And I miss it.

I worried for a sec about where to put my stuff, and then realized that I can put it under the massage table, and on the ample shelving. I have so little with me right now that it can easily fit in the hut without being a visual distraction to my guests.

Perk: Close to the bathroom. Perk: Close to the tubs. I guess you’d call it centrally located.

I’ve only got 9 more days here before I hightail it back to the Real World. I thought I’d live dangerously for that time. I’m pretty sure that sleeping in the massage room isn’t allowed, but my back is protesting more and more. I would ask that the bed belonging in my cabin be brought back, but the way things go here, it would take at least as long as I’ve got. As if I’m waiting around for that.

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My mother sent me an email this morning titled simply "dad". When your dad is as old, sick and failing as mine, you don't want to see that. Here's what she said: We had an exciting day today. We started off talking about going to the Everett Mall to buy a futon. I was on the computor waiting for John(I wanted him to tell me if he thought I could fit a futon in the back of my car, but he said he would take me
in the truck). Next thing I heard was dad yelling that he was bleeding! He fell against the fireplace because he couldn't navigate
the walker while holding a large cluster of grapes in his hand!! Yup!! Grapes!! He was bleeding from his head like a stuck pig!
I called John and he and Shannon came running over to help me. I don't know how he didn't fracture his skull, but I guess Nor-
wegians really ARE hard-headed. I held a compress to his head while John drove us to Arlington hospital-I didn't know if I could
stop the bleeding because of his medication, so I didn't want to chance driving all the way to Everett. The doctor put in 3 lovely sutures and sent us home. I don't remember anyone there checking his eyes. He never got dizzy or lost consciousness, so I guess they didn't think it was necessary. I surely hope that Group Health will pay for it!!

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There is no telling that man anything.

Ever since I was a kid, and when my dad was healthy and active, I'd imagine that I would come home and find my Dad dead with his head in the table saw. He was a little cavalier about the saw, and on two occasions 20 years apart, he caught his fingers in it. Stitches, skin grafts, the works the first time; the second time just a little mangled outer flesh. Still, I remember the trauma of that first time very clearly as he ran, hand bundled in dish towels, from our house the four blocks to the fire station. (It was quicker than waiting for the crew to come to him.) I told my mom that perhaps he would die of a head injury, just not in the way I had imagined.

Gotta run and work - more later.