Those of us who spend much time outdoors working can once again stand it. Almost gone are the “three-T-shirt days” and bandannas around the forehead. The same diminution of daylight that inspires the birds’ departure and our human efforts to “get ‘er done” before snowfall also provides the cool weather to do it.

Out in the front yard there’s a big pile of sixteen-inch-long chunks of wood – in our native Adirondacks, called “junks,” although no one I ever asked knew why – to be reduced to fuel for the furnace this winter. Up until last week, the longest I could stand the toil was an hour. This evening, cooled by dense air settling into the hollows, I quit after two hours, and then only because it was suppertime. Looks as though three more hours will do it. Then I can get to the “death-march phase” of the job: wheeling it all into the cellar and ranking it an easy distance from the furnace door. I’d hire a kid to do it, but nobody under forty can stack it as neatly as I like it. In some parts of the country a man is judged by his horse, his car, or his cornfield. Here in New England, it’s always been by his woodpile.

In addition to the promising weather, we’ve had a major social event here this past week. One of Mother’s four sisters has come to visit from Georgia; and the two of them, just like the flocking birds, are off on a road trip, to the Adirondacks, visiting old friends and family. The house is suddenly and uncharacteristically silent. I wake up in the morning twilight, go down the driveway for the paper, and start the coffee. I rummage through the crisper drawers in the refrigerator for leftovers and toss as many of them as I can stand into a garbage omelet. I watch the morning news and try to decide what to do with the day – all the while reflecting that, as much as I hate to be told by somebody else what needs doing, I miss the directions, which I always either follow or ignore.

Yesterday was cool and breezy, so I decided that, as part of the slow process of getting to know better this neck of the woods, I’d skip up some local mountain during the afternoon. I’d been unable to join an annual mass climb of Mount Hunger last winter because of a fractured leg; but the bone has healed beautifully, and I felt up to it. So after church and lunch, I loaded a pack with stuff I might need just in case – reflecting ruefully how the list has grown over six decades: headlight, extra batteries, water, cell phone, compass, whistle, etc. – and drove to the trailhead.

Lots of cars there; I’d have plenty of company if anything went wrong. I set out up a graveled logging road at what I calculated to be a two-mile-per-hour pace, planning to be at the top in an hour and a half. An hour later, long after I should have passed a trail junction at 1.7 miles, I found myself wandering around an overgrown log yard, looking for a way out. There was none that looked like a trail. Again I calculated: Even if I found the trail now, at the speed I appeared to be traveling, I’d be pushing twilight before I got back down. That is, if I got back down; the guide book describes some pretty steep going up there. So I retreated, looking more carefully for the missed junction, and was chagrined to find it right where the guide book said it was. I saluted it and promised I’d be back, but earlier in the day next time.

That was yesterday’s debacle – caused, no doubt, by the distractions of solo living. Today I decided that I’d get the banister up beside the ramp on the back porch. It’s kind of a nice bit of hardwood carpentry, and too expensive to screw up, so I’ve so far tended to avoid it. I was planning my strategy while I showered, when suddenly the connection between the shower head and the hand-held spray let go. That obviously had to be fixed before I tackled anything else. A couple of hours later I realized that I was actually doing both at once: With the banister in the vise for sanding and staining, I was leaning over it to fit together the pieces of the ruptured shower head on the workbench. It crossed my mind that this might be the onset of something serious.

Meantime, Thelma and Louise seem to be having far too much fun in Upper New York. They’ve called each evening to tell me where they are and give me their phone number, and there’s a lilt in their voices that they’re taking no pains to disguise. Don’t get me wrong; nothing but the threat of mayhem or the promise of a lot of money could induce me to join them. But you’d think they’d appreciate my situation here. I feel like a dried green pea rattling around in a number ten can. The work on the wood pile and the banister, and the masterful repair of the shower head are all very satisfying, but there’s nobody to say, “Hey! That’s beautiful!”

A few minutes ago I got a call. I had three sales calls today, so I probably sounded a bit grumpy when I half-shouted, “Hello!” into the phone. It turned out to be a life-changing message. They’d just cleared the Essex-Charlotte ferry, and would be here in an hour. I find myself smiling. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but I can be secure in the knowledge that somebody does.