Split D&Decision

The first Thursday of each month, a group of us play Dungeons & Dragons at Polyrhythm Brewing. A couple weeks back, my four players found themselves in the center of a ring of ghostly frost giant chieftains on their stone thrones, fighting a giant skeleton summoned up by the ancient king, Reggaryarva. 

The fighter, monk, bard and druid squared off against the undead creature, who, though not fast, packed a significant wallop. In fact, a natural 20 took the gnomish druid out on the very first turn (and on that poor player's first opportunity to play in months, to boot).

No idea why I didn't snap a pic of the actual fight...

The remaining adventurers managed to eventually drop the frost giant skeleton, but were then assailed by an invisible stalker, and before too long, all the party members save one were laying unconscious. Worse still, their mummified companion Sahnar had been tragically destroyed by the stalker! 

At least the sole member on his feet was able to stabilize his living comrades and drag them to safety, as the spectral king dismissed his summoned monster with a wave while wiping mirthful tears from his eyes.

The next morning, the debate revolved around whether the Ice Pack (as they are sometimes known) should have another go at the gauntlet, or move on to sooething a little less challenging.

The monk argued that the challenge was proof that something valuable was at stake, if they could just prove their worth. The fighter challenged this, saying they had followed a rumour lacking in details far out on the tundra away from Ten Towns. The druid mused that there might be further challenges after the stalker, while the bard lamented that a rematch would not include Sahnar, one of their heaviest hitters.

As a Dungeon Master, it is great to sit back and watch your players interact in a way that requires little to no input from yourself. I did throw in the occasional tidbit like, "yeah tough to beat an invisible foe without something like faerie fire to even the field," prompting the druid's player to reply, "hmm, I actually have that spell..."

The debate went back and forth, with the monk being most insistent on trying again, since the ghostly council supposedly only appeared under the light of the full moon. The other players were more hesitant, arguing there were other rumours to explore, but also hating the idea of relinquishing potential loot.

Watching the monk player emphatically trying to make his case, I jokingly said, "Roll Persuasion!" He dutifully picked up a d20 and let fly, ended up with an imprssive result of 19.

"That isn't binding, is it?" asked the fighter player.

"No," I confirmed, "Player characters have agency, they get to make up their own minds."

The bard player finished his current beer and said, "Well, I'm convinced."

I blinked. "What? Really?"

"Not totally," he replied. "I, the player, think this is dumb idea that will likely result in some or all of us getting killed." Looking the monk player square in the eye, he continued with a grin. "But Yorrick Grondson, half-orc bard and adventurer, is completely on-board thanks to the effective arguments made by Fardun Glinthammer!"

Grinning, the monk player looked at his teammate running the gnomish druid, Merrick Frostbottom. "Well," he mused, "if we can keep me out of the scrum a bit longer, it could work..."

All eyes turned to the player running Ivar Ango, human bounty hunter, who stared back impassively for a long moment before finally sighing, "well, it's not like I am going to let you idiots do this without me, am I? So I guess I'm in too."

And so the next night, the adventurers set themselves up far more strategically, and when the frost giant skeleton was summoned this time, it was hard pressed to deal with the hit and run attacks of the nimble monk. Ivar darted between the massive stone thrones, forcing the undead thing to clamber over them in pursuit while spells shot forth from Yorrick and Merrick.

With the martial arts attacks of Fardun doing double damage to the brittle bones of the skeleton (and with it not rolling any critical hits this time!), they made short work of the first challenge in surprisingly little time.

And when the invisible stalked first attacked one of them, Merrick illuminated it with faerie fire, negating its primary defense. This allowed the rest of the party to flank it and take it down in again, a surprisingly quick fashion.

This prompted cheers around the table and a respectful nod from the ghost of King Reggaryarva, who raised his hand and...whoa, almost put more spoilers in there than I'd intended... Needless to say, the Ice Pack was elated, and the adventure will continue in early November.

From a coin check earlier in the evening; Sahnar (RIP) at the bottom

Campsgiving 2025 - The Hard Wind

Parts of our family have been late-season camping (Sep-Oct) in Jasper since 2017. It is rare that all four of us are able to go on this cool-weather hot spring trip, but rarer still for the trip to occur without incident.

In 2018, Frankentrailer gave up the ghost.

In 2020, Covid scuttled the whole thing.

In 2023, I tried the cold pool at the hot springs and regretted it immediately.

And last year, damage from wildfires ended up closing our chosen campground and Bride of Frankentrailer got a flat on the Henday as we headed towards our alternate site, so we ended up staying in a motel with kitchenette instead.

This year, we were fully aware it would be cold. We knew there was a high likelihood of rain and a possibility of snow (all of which eventually happened) and dressed accordingly.

But we were unprepared for the 40-knot winds on Saturday morning that inside-outed our 10' Coleman shelter and nearly carried Fenya away with it while I was trying to make French toast. Thankfully I had already turned the camp stove off so there was no risk of fire or injury that way. The girls gamely held onto the legs of the bent structure while I struggled to remove the covering as it flapped loudly in the gale-force wind.

It was raining at the time so we were all damp and chilled by the time we got everything stowed, and breakfast was a write-off. But when we got to Jasper townsite there was a parking space directly outside North Face Pizza, and two large pizzas made a great hot breakfast...at 1:30 in the afternoon.

Heading out to the hot springs, the weather turned less windy and more snowy the moment we turned onto Miette Road. The twisty trail (that still has automated traffic control for the single lane area where the road washed out a few years ago) carries you up nearly 400 meters up from the Yellowhead and although the roads themselves were clear, the limbs of trees were bowed under the burden of wet, heavy snow.

Thanksgiving weekend is the last chance to visit Miette each year, so it is usually pretty crowded - last year there was a line-up to get in for the first time. But despite being close to capacity, it is still very relaxing to sit in the naturally hot waters and let cold snow melt upon your head. 

We got to the Inn Grill for dinner around 6 pm, and were seated right next to the fire, which was lovely. Sipping on cocktails while we waited for dinner to arrive, the girls were a bit surprised when I thanked them profusely for their patience.

"We volunteered, and weather is not guaranteed..." they said.

"I know," I agreed, "but you signed on for cold nights and maybe setup or takedown in the rain, not almost getting pulled into the sky by a runaway shelter. To say nothing of how cold is it likely to be tonight. Do you have any idea how many offspring would have turned on their dad like cornered snakes after the night and day you two had?"

They shrugged it off like I figured, but took my toast to their patience and understanding with good humor.

That night we watched Bull Durham on my iPad before bed, and our tiny space heater was put to the test overnight as the temperature dropped to five below freezing. But there was no complaining that night, nor the next day as we packed up camp while the occasional transient snowflake drifted in.

The Waiting (Room) Game - Canine Edition

Sleeping with a dog like Canéla in the room can be a challenge at times. While she will begrudgingly depart our bed for her own when we ask her too (often voicing her displeasure with a low, rumbling growl), and on occasion even remove herself after lights out, she fully believes she can reserve the right to unilaterally resituate herself on our queen-sized mattress at pretty much any time she wishes. And if we are sound asleep, oftentimes it turns out she is correct.

Friday morning at 3:40 am, however, she was whimpering on the floor loudly enough that it woke me up. This wasn't the soft cries of bad dreams that we find so unsettling during the day, but sounds of stress and discomfort. She was also at the foot of our bed, not in her own, which was unusual behaviour.

Thinking she needed to go to outside, and got up and led her to the back door, but noticed her walk was much more stiff-legged and awkward than her usual loping gait. After opening the back door, she proceeded gingerly down the back steps and towards the grass.

When I came back from my own washroom break, it looked like she was trying to poop but unable to, and her back legs were visibly shaking. She stopped trying, and then her long legs seemed to fold up under her and she lay down on the cool, damp grass - also unlike her.

I thought perhaps we was taking a short break or perhaps cooling off, but when she didn't get up after a few minutes, I opened the door again and whistled. 

Other than turning her head to look at the open door, she didn't move. 

I put on my jacket and went outside in my Crocs, bending down and scratching her behind the ears. I stood up, clapped my hands and pointed to the back step, inviting her back in. 

She looked at me with an expression I couldn't fathom.

I ended up picking her up and carrying her into the house and setting her on the loveseat in the living room. Glory was up by now and I explained my level of concern, which had been rising consistently since being awakened. Glory checked her legs and paws while I fetched a bowl of water, but didn't find any sore spots or injuries, and Canéla turned up her nose at the water I offered her.

With my concern reaching peak levels, I went back the bedroom for my iPad and sat in the recliner next to her, glad to see her rest her head at the armrest so she could see me. I saw there were a number of 24-hour vet clinics I could bring her to if needed, but she didn't seem to be in any distress at the moment, so Glory and I agreed that wait and see was probably the prudent approach. I texted the happenings to the family Instagram chat and headed back to bed, where sleep eluded me for at least another 1-2 hours. Was my pet's issue neurological? Parvovirus? Cancer? 

I found out after I woke up that when Glory got up for her 7:30 am shift at Grey Nuns, the dog was laying on the floor outside her door. Glory let her out, and the morning pattern repeated itself - she ended up carrying Canéla back in and laying her on her own bed, with more room to stretch out. Somehow the same incident repeating made the entire situation more worrisome.

Audrey wanted our own vet in Spruce Grove to look at her instead of taking her to an emergency clinic but they didn't open until 8:30. I called in to work to let them know I would be absent and went back to sleep for a few minutes, but when I called, I discovered they were booked solid for the day and recommended I take her in right away (somewhere else).

So I ended up carrying her out to the Lander (where she had exactly enough strength in her limbs to walk across the comfy blanket I had laid out and onto the opposite rear seat, where she collapsed in a heap), and driving her to Boreal Veterinary Centre, across from the Humane Society on 137 Avenue.

It is a new facility (2 years old this summer), with three of the four receptionsit stations crewed so I could see one right away. They got her checked in quickly and even lent me a leash, since I left the house in such a state that bringing one hadn't even occurred to me.

Canéla walked under her own power to the waiting area until she could be triaged, with her tail tucked and feet skittering uncertainly along the slick floor. She lay down beside my chair in a clear state of apprehension, only rarely letting her head rest on her paws, but not once expressing any interest in or barking at the other people or dogs in the centre. 

It did not take long for a tech to come in and assess Canéla, concurring that the limbs seemed all right, and although her temperature was the high end of normal, her heart and respiration were pretty normal. With her being classified as stable, we would basicaly enter the queue of non-emergency cases, and would be bumped if more pressing cases presented themselves. She advised it we likely be a 2-3 hour wait, which I said was fine and understandable.

We walked back to the waiting area, and after about an hour she stood up and pulled for the door, the most initiative I had seen her take all day. I took her out to their spacious lawn and watched her struggle to excrete a tiny bit of diarrhea, and then let her lead us back to the Lander. 

She seemed must more restful curled up on the back seat than laying on the hard floor inside, so we stayed out for a couple more hours, driving away briefly so I could get some drive-thru for lunch. After eating, I took her back on the lawn with no result, but did get to see her drink a little water from the makeshift tuna can dish I keep in the vehicle.

After three and a half hours, I was growing a little uncomfortable and a bit impatient, but when a young man in his twenties walked by with (presumably) his father, his eyes puffy and cheeks flushed and tear-stained, I overheard him asking if their pet was going to be cremated here. Reminded that these premises contained far worse things than waiting, I opened my iPad and returned to reading. 

It was five hours before we were shown into an examination room, and the lights actually turned off once and I had to flap my arms to reinstate them before the vet arrived . She introduced herself as Milla and apologized for the long wait. She explained there had been an influx of more serious cases and status changes that had kept all the staff hopping.

Despite the stresses of the day, she was delightful and friendly, and plied Canéla with treats while conducting her examination. I held her collar while the vet checked her temperature at the other end, and she noted it had actually increased another tenth of a degree, but wasn't too concerned about it. 

She confirmed the diarrhea and largely ruled out constipation based on palping the dog's abdomen, and suggesting an x-ray to confirm was probably unnecessary. In the end, she suggested that the diarrhea must have taken enough of a toll on Canéla to exhaust her early in the morning, and while she couldn't make a determination as to cause, we agreed that "digestive misadventure" was not out of the question.

She suggested a pre-probiotic paste but not only wrote out a prescription for antibiotics just in case (so we wouldn't have to come back in if her condition worsened), but also asked if she could give Canéla a quick ultrasound to make sure there was no fluid around her heart (something that had happened with another case) for no charge. The emergency exampination and medicine came to less than $250. The dog not only walked back to the car but jumped in on her own this time; she was still for the rest of the ride home though.

Friday night Canéla had a few accidents downstairs, and today the backyard evidence suggests she is still pretty unsettled so we are switching from kibble to beef and rice (there's a reason it's a classic)to see if that helps. But she is jumping on and off the bed again under her own power, which is a relief to see, and acting a little more like herself every hour it seems.

And if nothing else, it is good to know that there is a 24-hour animal hospital just down the road that already has "Kanela" on file if we need to go there in a hurry...but I am okay if we never go back either.

Thoughts on Grand Prix (1966)

Sometime after watching F1: The Movie this summer, the Algorithm (TM) pushed a YouTube video my way about the making of John Frankenheimer''s 1966 Formula 1 film Grand Prix. Tonight we finally got an opportunity to watch it.

Despite being a potentially overlong (3 hrs!) and dated movie, I have to say it holds up extremely well. Yes, some of the social mores of the mid-sixties haven't aged well, particularly as they apply to gender relations, and seeing a film with not only an intermission but also an overture and entr'acte was kind of nostalgic, but the race sequences more than make up for that. I also found the Saul Bass title sequence to be a delightful throwback as well.

Nearly everything this summer's F1 did was preceded in some way by Grand Prix nearly a half-century earlier. New camera technology, almost a decade before the introduction of the steadicam, allowed smooth footage to be shot from the track as speeds never before documented so closely. The idea of mounting a camera on the Ford GT40, a beast from the LeMans races of the era, had never been considered before.

Commitment to proximity was such that the camera operator who captured so many awesome (and occasionally amazingly long) shots from helicopter, had the tips of his shoes tinted green from treetops brushing against the skid where he braced his feet.

Likewise, in addition to doing much of his own driving in a disguised Formula 3 car, James Garner also did his own stunt in a sequence where his car caught fire, such was his shared desire for verisimillitude.

As in many sports movies, there are not too many surprises, but the subplots about the various women in the racers' lives is well handled, and well acted by such legends as Eva Marie Saint and Jessica Walters.

Grand Prix was released in Cinerama, an innovative prestige format of the time which required three spearate projectors and a specially curved screen. And it sounds as marvelous as it looks, winning Oscars for Sound and Sound Effects as well as Editing, the assortment throaty ten-cylinder engines having a variety of tones that make the races almost polyphonic.

If you want to see a motorsports movie that captures the feeling of speed so dramatically that after seeing a 30-minute demo reel, Enzo Ferrari granted Frankenheimer access to not only his team but his factory, Grand Prix is worth a view.

The Art and Science of Striking Out

She entered the restaurant without trepidation. Well, mostly. 

This was their third date, and he had asked her several times to pick a restaurant so they could celebrate her passing a notoriously tough licensing exam. When she at last suggested a mid-level Italian place on Whyte Ave, he'd responded, "Oh, you like pasta? Have you ever been to Campio? They make really good pizza."

Puzzled at the jump from pasta to pizza but encouraged by his enthusiasm, she'd agreed. They're both Italian, she supposed.

After they'd ordered their food, he asked what kind of music she liked. Having a deep affection for a broad range of musical styles, she began by saying her preferences are very mood dependent but framing it up in terms of live music, she mentioned her very first concert experience was Muse, but in the last year or so she had attended Charli XCX, Hozier and Noah Kahan, and she'd also gone to Edmonton's Folk Fest in past years.

When asked the same question, he said he also liked a variety of music, and showed her his phone's music player, adding, "the first two playlists are what I typically listen to."

Scanning the lists, she noted a lot of classic and classic-styled rock, and the list labelled 'Metal' contained everything from Lynrd Skynrd to Rob Zombie and Nickelback. Maybe someone else named the list, she thought. "Are you a metalhead?" she asked as she handed the phone back.

"Not really," he admitted. "I'm mostly a rock guy, to be honest."

"I like a fair bit of metal," she offered.  "Mostly power metal, but...do you know Rammstein?"

"Yeah, I know Rammstein."

"I went to their concert a few years ago with my dad and my sister and that was an amazing show; super fun."

He nodded, but was there a trace of smirk in his smile? "So you like Rammstein? What's your favourite song?"

Ignoring the soft sounds of a warning chime deep in her mind, she tried to formulate a succinct but fulsome answer. "Oh, that's too hard to pick - give me a second..." she replied, and began collating a short list in her head.

But before she could answer, he offered a suggestion: "Du Hast right? Probably?"

Taken a bit aback, and aware of the warning chimes increasing in frequency and volume, she replied, "umm, no, actually; I'm not sure that would even crack my top ten. It's a great song and all, and everyone knows it so it's great to hear live, but definitely not my favourite. At the concert, Sonne was the most fun."

Giving no indication he was familiar with that song, she sought to move on. Unlocking her own phone and calling up a list of liked tunes, she handed it over to him and said, "here is the kind of stuff I am listening to lately."

Scrolling through, a chuckle escaped his lips. "What?" she inquired, grinning. "Have I got something weird on there?"  (said knowing full well that she just might).

"No, no, it's nothing, just kinda funny..." he replied.

"What is?" she persisted.

"It's just, you know, this is kind of just... basic white girl music."

"OH." she said. She extended her hand for the phone, choosing, for the moment, to snooze alarm the warning chimes just as they got upgraded to bells.

Later on, the topic turned to travel, after his admission that he had never been out of Canada. "Oh," she brightened, thinking everyone has that bucket list. "So where would you like to go?"

"Oh, I dunno," he said, non-committally. "Probably somewhere warm, like Mexico."

"Ah, cool," she nodded. "I went there twice last year actually, but they were very different trips. Are you more a beachy, resort kind of guy, or would you rather stay in a city and check out all the local things and the culture?"

While not definitively derisive, his snorted chortle certainly underscored his response: "Pfft! Nah, yeah, I would go to a resort - I don't need to get 'cultured.'"

She took a sip of her drink while nodding, not trusting her expression, and muffled the bells that were now clanging like some sort of  incompatibility alarm. and the conversation drifted into safer territory for the remainder of what had just become their final date. 

It's All Greek and Delicious to Me - Autumnal Geekquinox 2025

Having travelled to Greece as part of their comprehensive European honeymoon earlier this year, Pete & Ellen theming the most recent Geekquinox as "My Big Fat Greek Honeymoon" makes a lot of sense. The hit 2002 movie of the same name is fondly remembered as a lot of fun, and obviously that region boasts some spectacular cuisine. (Although their overlooking of 'Greekquinox' as a name until I mentioned it was a bit surprising...)

Audrey was a bit saddened that we didn't have anything particularly Grecian to wear, until I chanced to ask Totty if he still had the toga sheets from G&G XVIII around. Turns out he was planning the same thing himself, but luckily enough he had exactly three of them on hand!

Things opened up with a cocktail featuring ouzo, lemonade and mint leaves that was an absolute delight for both Audrey and I, with the anise flavoured liquor cutting some of the acidity that normally makes lemonade a risky proposition for her.

The first dish was a amazing homemade spanakopita, with loads of homemade tzatziki to go with it. A tandem effort that saw Ellen looking after much of the folding and re-folding of the filo pastry (which would have driven me utterly mad) while pete worked on other dishes, these crispy, creamy hors d'ouevres were absolutely fantastic. Good enough that I reached for a third when two would have been plenty!

Not nearly long enough after that, the grilled souvlaki chicken and Greek rice arrived at the table for lunch proper; Geekquinox begins at noon now to facilitate our aging difficulty in remaining up long past midnight. The grilled chicken was juicy and flavourful, and not tremendously salty (a challenge I often face with grilled chicken), but the rice almost stole the show. Cooked with lemon juice and zest as well as chicken stock and a bit of parsley, this was one of the best rice dishes I have ever tasted, with just the right amount of stickiness.

After a slightly longer break (and some more delicious lemonade cocktails), the main course arrived at the table: a delicious slow roasted lamb leg, Greek potatoes and a Greek salad.  Seasoned and roasted potatoes are one of my favourite sides, but I am generally too lazy or time-pressed to make them myself, and these ones hit the sweet spot right between crispy and fluffy. The salad, with tomatoes, olives, onions, celery and feta in a mild vinaigrette was light and fresh, an ideal accompaniment to the succulent, boneless lamb. How succulent? The first piece that I forked off the platter to hand to another guest, broke apart under its own weight - and it was not an enormous piece. And with au jus for the roast and tzatziki for the potatoes, there was no worry about dryness to be found anywhere.

There was ample time for drinking and chatting before the dessert course was served: a custard dish in an impossibly flay filo pastry shell called galaktobourekos. I would sing the praises of this dessert based on its crust alone, knowing how finicky filo is to work with, but the rich custardy heart of the dish was neither too flaky nor too runny, challenges I have encountered with custard in the past. A delightful finish to the evening, even if it did push me almost to the bursting point!

But there we were, sufficiently fed and watered with full stomachs and fuller hearts even before 9:00 rolled around. And the two dishes that ended up not making it to the table were not even missed, and frankly, might have pushed some of us beyond our limits.

As always though, the wonderful fellowship among dear friends who have done this for well over a decade now, put even the glory of the dishes to shame. Thanks again Pete and Ellen - opa!

Bench Works

I went through a bit of what must have been a nesting period in 2007 when my work situation changed suddenly. I found myself out of my position with 11 weeks of severance pay and (blessedly) health care for that period as well. I wanted to take some time figuring out what I wanted to do next, and was doing some work along those lines at the Bredin Institute, but I also knew my capacity for indolence was practically limitless, and endeavoured to find productive distractions around the home Audrey and I had purchased barely a year earlier.

One of these projects was a workbench and toolboard, something I highly recommend if you have any love of organization whatsoever. The workbench itself, a chintzy Chinese-made jobbie from Canadian Tire, was no great whoop but at least gave me an elevated surface to work from, and a shelf to keep some larger tools off the floor. With some added pegboard and hooks from the local hardware store, I had ample space to arrange my modest collection of tools, including the big set of screwdrivers my sister- and brother-in-law had gifted me the previous Christmas.

I also wall-mounted the grey tool box we'd picked up from Costco shortly after getting married. Again, the tools weren't of any particular quality, but the socket set was decent enough, and it had a specific spot for everything, which I appreciated.

An old change table fit under the grey box as an additional workspace, and it made a good spot for the nuts and bolts organizer drawers I also got as a gift.

To be clear, I do not do a whole lot of handymannin' or project work, but when tools are needed to hang a picture frame, replace a car battery or jury-rig some barriers to isolate the winter tires beside the garage, it is gratifying not having to search too far for the right tool for that job.

And being without work at the time made this an even more satisfying project; lining up the hooks and tools and arranging the screwdrivers was like a mundane and Western version of a Zen garden. AT an unsettled time in my life, this bastion of organization and potential productivity was a genuine balm to my spirits. It made me wonder if Dad had felt the same way about his workspace in the garage in Leduc.

Dad's garage workbench was homemade, constructed out of sturdy 4 x 8 boards and long steel woodscrews as I recall. He mounted both a decent sized vise and a small electric grinder wheel  on it, as well as an overhead fluorescent light. The majority of his hand tools though, he tended to keep in a nondescript but tough canvas bag that I think he'd had since his days in the navy. His electric drill had a dedicated steel box and I recall a few wrenches on the wall, but I think my pegboard game might actually have been better than his. 

That workbench was some kind of solid though.

This weekend, two friends and I went out to their late mother's house in Leduc to get their own dad's workbench out of the basement, in anticipation of selling the home. It's a nice unit, with a treadplate-fronted cupboard and drawers containing that cushy mesh so your wrenches and such don't slide around or clank loudly every time you set them in there. Best of all though, it has a gorgeous, thick wooden top.

Neither of my friends recall this bench from their childhood, reckoning it came in after they'd left home, possibly after their father had retired. What had prompted the purchase? Was it for a special project, of just too good a deal to pass up? Regardless, neither of them had space for it, and I was grateful for the opportunity to give it a new home. 

In anticipation of its arrival, I had pulled the change table out of its niche and swept out almost two decades worth of dust and mouse droppings. I moved the old chest of drawers out of the corner so I could more easily reach the top drawer full of nails and screws, as well as the others with their miscellaneous collections. 

The Mastercraft bench is sturdy and awkward, so getting it up a narrow staircase with a 90-degree turn in it was a challenge, but we managed to do it without damaging the walls or ourselves. It fit easily enough in the back of the 'Lander once one of the second row seats was folded down, and unloading it my garage was a piece of cake for two people. 

When Audrey saw it, she observed that the beautiful wooden top could actually let it serve as a kitchen island if needed. I started to reply about treadplate being an odd design motif for modern kitchens, but stopped when I realized yeah, an incongruous industrial style like that could actually look pretty cool...

There is still some re-organizing needed, as well as a trip or two to the Eco Station and Reuse Centre, but even these initial steps of tidying and reorienting are a salve to my soul, similar to when I had initially set it up. Would that everything in my life could be sorted so easily!