Not Indian summer …

… because we’re a month or more away from our first frost. But after a rainy September we’re in the midst of mild, sunny days.

Sunny days have meant only one thing to me all summer: Accomplish work on the house.

We (and I) did enough of that to turn Ye Olde Wreck officially into the Mo Saoirse Hermitage, but there’s still a bit of this, bit of that. I’ve begun each dry morning with a to-do list.

Yesterday I was good and did everything I planned. Today … well, I got started, though I ended up doing a different — easier but more aesthetically satisfying — set of tasks.

Then I decided to bag it.

—–

I am now comfortably chemically enhanced and just came in from sitting in the afternoon sun, where I gazed upon loveliness but could not get my mind off the damned spider that has spun a web right across two of my newly trimmed and painted rooflines.

But I’m too content to bestir myself to do anything about it. So I remind myself that Mom always said spiders are good and go on relaxing.

This morning I took the ugly-ugly-ugly-ugly dog kennel down and stashed its panels at the far side of the property — so far it’s actually on somebody else’s property, but that’s another story. It’s been useful but hideous for many years.

Having taken that away (did I mention it was ugly?), I got about doing a bit of rearranging of the yard. Of tools and potted plants and stray pier blocks and broken bricks. Attempting to make silk purses out of the sow’s ear of stuff that has no place to hide. And I tell you, that was much happier than working over my head to nail trim into a tignt spot that barely admits my hammer.

I’ll probably have a pic later of one of the more “different” things I did. Mostly it was Advanced Neatening. But satisfying.

—–

In between rearranging, Ava and I drove to a nearby town that’s getting a new little “liquidation mart.”

I love those places — although you have to be careful of what you’re getting. As with other such stores, this one’s a mix of past-sell-by items, damaged goods, and goods that are in perfect shape but were part of a damaged shipment.

The owners are local and they were still just unpacking boxes. My entire visit was accompanied by the slap–zip-slap-zip of price tags being applied with the little price-tag-applying machine thingie. But it was a fine day for preparedness and life in general.

Thirty-six double rolls of Northern TP for $9.98, half Walmart’s scan price. Those fancy Sahale hipster pistachio-and-pomegranate snacks for $1.89 a bag. Swanson’s broth, $.89. A big stack of quality paper plates. Lots of personal indulgences, too. Extra-toasty Cheez-Its (my greatest unhealthy temptation, next to Gardetto’s Snack-ens, original flavor), $1.59 a big box. Not those little 7-ounce miniature boxes, either.

But the best thing was a flat, 12 jars, of real Bavarian sauerkraut, none of that artificially induced sauerkraut — the exact same stuff the town’s one fancy specialty store sells for $6 a jar — for $19.08. $1.59 a jar.

Yep. Life is gooooood. I could have bought a lot more in that place, long may it last. In a small town like that one, lasting will be a challenge. But I suspect they’ll draw customers.

—–

There’s a reason I was allowing my peace to be disturbed by that spider.

I pushed so hard this summer because I wanted to get to One Big Certain Point: the moment at which I could apply for homeowners’ insurance. That is, preferred — or “real” — homeowners’ insurance.

I’ve had no insurance since I bought this place, which gave me a few uneasy midnight moments. I’ve always been a believer in insurance and fretted through the times I’ve had to be without it. But Ye Olde Wreck would only have qualified for non-preferred, the choice for meth shacks, welfare hovels — and endless DIY projects.

My insurance on the flatlands house was non-preferred — painful premiums that covered very little except the seller’s mortgage interest. Never again.

It was actually by Lloyds of London. That was amusing. Lloyds insures luxury liners, sports contests, world’s largest gems — and denizens of substandard housing.

I now have the real deal. Preferred insurance (did I think I’d ever make it?) with a local agent and a very affordable price.

When I first started getting quotes, I didn’t think I’d find that. Some of the prices were three times what I eventually ended up with, and for no better coverage. I really lucked out; and it’s with a reputable company, too. So ever since Friday I’ve been smiling about something I never thought I’d smile about — insurance.

But. Although the agent visited and thought the place would pass, the insurance company now sends somebody to my house. It’s just an exterior inspection. But I worry. I worry that some small length of mis-applied trim deep under the eaves, or some lone chip of paint will put the kibosh on the deal.

I’ve done all I can, structurally. There are just a few bits of trim to go. But you never know.

So I’ve put a fair emphasis on making this look (accurately) like the kind of place that a houseproud woman and a good remodeler would inhabit. Little touches. Artful arrangements, even when they’re arrangements of tools and miscellaneous construction materials. No idea whether this makes any difference. But it’s what I can do and what I like to do and I figure every little bit helps.

One spider — and she’s just the vanguard of many — threatens my well-being. I don’t care what Mama said. Spiders are ugly, they’re sticky, they have a habit of making webs at face height, they spew thousands of baby spiders that do the same and … no. That spider will not help my cause.

I’ll get that b***h.

Just not right now.