And you know, it never occurred to me that my ceilings might be 7-foot-10.

We will fix this. A couple of inches off the bottom, please...

And some little magics: Just as we wondered how we would transport the shelves, my old friend Brian C. from over the mountain stopped by to visit in his pickup truck. Just as I was telling PJ about the barcode reader I hoped to get, Jesse informed me by phone that he was bringing me a special gift when he drives up tomorrow—a barcode reader. Mirabile dictu.

But then, of course, the two steps back: the shop is too short to accommodate the shelves; Jesse phones to say the car he'd arranged to borrow has broken down and he can't come after all. The latter, a stinging disappointment. Bitterer every time. Miserabile dictu.

And no painting has been done. And no books priced. And Wednesday is nigh. And I have many cow cookies to bake tomorrow night for Grand Opening day. And the clock ticks. And the caffeine recirculates. And the mind races.

The moon was spectacular tonight. When I rode back with Brian C. and the second truckload of shelves, the moon had just crested the great gray flatiron of cloud that lay on the Warners, the big fat full full moon. And I didn't know its name this time. I learn now that it's the Beaver Moon, boys and girls, no giggling back there, and that's a little magic, too, because as I was flipping back through the archives this morning I stumbled on that photo I snapped of the flood-muddied beaver last spring.

And this evening I threw together a pizza for PJ and we ate it in my chilly little sitting room, she perched on the very edge of the sofa I didn't realize was hairy, too, I'd forgotten to cover it, and didn't wear the right glasses to notice, and we waited for the little woodstove fire to warm us, but that never happened. Afterward I walked with her back to her little house down the way, with flashlight and dogs, and the moon was straight up and all ice, and enclosed in an icy caul, and I said it would likely be so very cold tonight, and that's another name for November full moon—the Frosty Moon.

And it's the same moon again every month. It just tries on different monikers. Its noms de plume, de guerre, de theatre.

OK now, now see? I've written myself to sleep...
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