Well, that's all done.
And now, circa 10:37 p.m. central time, 9:37 p.m. mountain time, the town inebriate is out there mowing the grass. I have no idea how he does it, and yes, he's all tanked up, but I must admit he does a really good job.
The property, or rather, the dirt, was photographed completely today; the prairie archaeologist took at least 800 pictures. All here excepting the house, the garage, and the William Rivers Pitt.
The William Rivers Pitt is outside of his study; it belongs to that one hot chick, who's going to be here on July 15, and she of course is going to measure it and photograph it for her own project, before drilling.
It's really odd; she's really a good-looking chick and all that, but I bet it would stun people who don't know, if they were told her "thing" is studying the decomposition of antique swine excrement. (Actually, her major is soil chemistry, and she studies a lot of other stuff too.)
She just dropped by for a few minutes, to see how it was going. Much to my surprise, she and the prairie archaeologist are only vague acquaintances. They both attend the University of Nebraska, but she is from Maryland, and he is from upstate New York, that one big city run by primitives. Neither of them plans to return "home" when they're done with college, finding "home" too dirty, too crowded, too noisy to suit them.
I was outdoors, out in the sun, most of the day, and I hope to God I had taken enough precautions. It was only in the mid-70s by mid-day, but the sun was bright and clear. I was attired in the bush helmet, a sleeveless t-shirt, and one of those tan-colored pairs of shorts used by the New Zealand army in northern Africa during the second world war. And barefooted.
And an umbrella.
I'm sure it looked weird, but the prairie archaeologist wasn't professionally dressed either; straw hat, flip-flops, sleeveless t-shirt, blue gym shorts, extravagant sunglasses. He didn't have an umbrella, though.
He's aware, of course, of my certain affliction (and hence didn't even bat an eye when I grabbed an umbrella), and got around inquiring about it when we took one of several breaks.
I told him I have no idea; this is nothing that runs in the family.
I had a younger brother who apparently was born with a propensity towards skin-cancer; when we were little, he was always having to go to the hospital to get moles and red skin removed. But as he died when he was 17, I don't know how that would have played out, if he'd lived longer.
As I explained to the prairie archaeologist, I myself had never been affected by the Sandhills sun; I spent my entire adolescence in the Sandhills, and never developed a freckle, even.
It was not until after I returned from the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants with free medical care for all, that suddenly it became a problem. I was not back a year before, ooops, I had a malignancy that was immediately removed (all since then have been benignancies, because I watch out for them).
When I was in the socialist paradises, of course I had no idea what I was seeing and handling, but I did in fact "tour" seven different nuclear power plants there, first-hand and up close. Touched things, sucked in the air. I wish to God I could explain what I saw, but everything in those power plants had names inexplicable to me. I suppose it was like a women's clothing designer inspecting a submarine.
And OSHA does not exist in workers' paradises.
I dunno if that's valid or not, but that's just my guess.
