The Outlandish Companion - Diana Gabaldon [261]
This time it was an hombre from the phone company, come to fix the fax machine’s line (cf. staircase, above). Showed him the miscreant fax, helped him track the phone line—which had been installed by one of my husband’s programmer employees back when he had his office in that room—then left him to it.
Reminded of phones, checked for messages (only one phone in the house rings, for reasons I won’t go into; this means I normally don’t hear it from my office—a Good Thing, on the whole—so I’m in the habit of checking the voice mail once every hour or so). Message from my father, wanting to know when girls are off school so my stepmother (bless her heart) can take them to have their hair cut. Message from person wanting to sell my house for me (ignore). Message from person wanting to come and demonstrate antiburglary system (ignore. Inside dogs have finally quit barking at phone person, but he’s gone outside, and outside dogs are now having hysterics. There’s a reason we’ve never had burglars, aside from the fact that we haven’t got a lot of stuff anyone would think worth stealing, unless you count SuperNintendo. If anyone wants to come steal my ancient XT clone, they’re welcome to it; it’s insured). Message from librarian in Salt Lake City, wanting to confirm that I am coming to speak at a conference in Snowbird at end of May, and can I do the dinner speech too, they’ll pay me extra.
Minor panic. Did I agree to go and talk to people in Utah in May? Rustle through tray of speaking/workshop engagements. Evidently I agreed conditionally (hint: never throw anything away, and when you talk to people on the phone, write down on their letter what it is you told them), provided I didn’t have to go to ABA. Think suddenly that I don’t know whether I have to go to ABA; Drums may be out late enough that they’re featuring it there.
Telephone editor, who is out, but get her assistant, who promises to find out for me about ABA. Return to work, get as far as lyrical description of shadows lengthening under the trees, turning from vanilla to chilly violet and then cold blue on the snow as the sun goes down. Get up to open balcony door, as it’s getting rather warm in office. Phone hombre comes inside to ask where main phone line panel is. Luckily I know this (from earlier phone adventures in this house) and go show him.
Go upstairs. Come downstairs at once, as Airborne Express hombre has arrived with parcel to be signed for. This proves to contain a dust jacket proof for Drums of Autumn, causing mingled interest and panic (said book being in a state of severe incompletion upstairs). Set proof on kitchen table and stare at it for a while in attempt to decide whether I like it or not, while feeding bloodworms to fish and newts who live on table. Put fresh seed and water in parakeets’ cups (if the dogs don’t announce a burglar, the four birds will, noisy things).
Leave cover proof to marinate in my subconscious and go upstairs. Finish sentence about shadows, start worrying about the man out hunting, why hasn’t he come back? Is he walking his trapline? Go look at book on animal tracks, find out what hare tracks look like in snow. Take passing note of ferret tracks, various bird prints. Check Roger Tory Peterson field guide (pausing to wonder whether constant exposure to this in my field-work days is where I got the name “Roger.” Hope not, as I’ve met RTP, who at the time was rather a pompous old geek. Now he’s dead, RIP) to be sure that kind of bird would be in North Carolina in winter.
Federal Express hombre arrives, bearing mysterious box labeled “Norm’s Gourmet Mushroom Garden.” Unable to put this aside, open it to discover that my sister has sent me… a mushroom garden. For Christmas. Roughly a foot-square