Still got it.
Step 6, assembling the smoker..."using three to four persons, roll the smoker over and stand it up on its legs..."
Piece of cake, all by myself.
Now, how do I get it out of the living room?

Fahreed Ali and I met for a beer at the Crest Hotel on Red River Road in Thunder Bay one fine spring day in 1972.
"Let me get this one," insisted Fahreed as he flipped a quarter to the waitress to pay for our two glasses of draft. "Keep the change," he smiled, waving off the nickel as a tip.
The two of us had met as students at Lakehead University and became friends during those early years of the '70s.
On the way to classes during the winter Fahreed was conspicuous, covered completely from the mad trapper hat with full flaps deployed and lashed down, to gigantic klodhopper insulated bush pac boots sticking out the bottom of bulging snow pants and baggy parka. He could barely fit into my Volkswagen bug for the ride to campus without first removing the mitts that stuck out his sleeves like tennis rackets.
"I don't know how you Canadians do it," he puzzled, shaking his head and peering through the frosted windows at the fashion conscious, scantily clad shiverers, huddling and huffing at every bus stop we passed.
Fahreed was from Trinidad and, until he landed in Canada, had never experienced temperatures colder than 65 degrees Fahrenheit. His eyes sparkled like fluffy moonlit flakes of snow as he cast off his traveling insulation to the good-natured teasing of friends. "But I am warm," he would smile, smooth as a hot fudge sundae, so gently that he could have been singing a love song.
He was a smart cookie.
We enjoyed hours of friendship and what seemed like unending discussions... sometimes philosophy, sometimes bullshit. Sometimes we didn't know the difference, but it was all good.
During our session at the Crest that day, 44 years ago, in preparation for Fahreed's return to Trinidad and a career in island banking, and my meandering to who knew where, we agreed to keep in touch and to meet again. We tore a dollar bill in half. He took one part and I took the other, and we vowed when we got together the next time we'd join the pieces and buy a whole pitcher of draft and sit right down and drink it and reminisce.
Fahreed and I haven't been in touch since that spring, but I have carried my half in my wallet every day. I'd be willing to bet he has done the same.
When we meet again, and I'm convinced we will, we'll have our pitcher of beer and a dandy reunion.

What a wonderful way to start the weekend! Here we go to camp Friday evening at dusk under an almost-full moon.

I like to walk and to stop once in a while to contemplate... meditate. It's good to refresh my soul and catch my breath.
Here is a favorite spot where I stop often, a most pleasant and serene retreat on a busy day.
I admired the moods tonight as I viewed this local landmark from slightly different perspectives.

I finally got to cook in one of my cast iron kettles at camp. This five gallon one fits real nice on top of our wood burning heat stove and it seemed to be crying out to load up and simmer some stew.
So, I made stew yesterday. It started with a recipe, but escalated as I found more and more ingredients that seemed like they'd add some pizazz. Part way through the day, after stewing because I had accidentally left my bag of frozen mixed vegetables at home, I finally donned my snowsuit and snowmobiled to town. Luckily, when I looked in the refrigerator I found an additional bag of mixed vegetables. And, eureka, another quart of broth. By the time I got back to camp I had a nice box of new found treasures.
So, I kept adding to the 45 pound kettle right on the stove top, and happily stirred everything with my new-carved kettle paddle every time I walked by.
By half way through the afternoon my gallon of stew had somehow reached nearly to the top of my five gallon kettle. That was all good. Who knows, maybe company will drop in. Or maybe we'll have a little bit left over to last us the rest of the winter.
All day, and into the night, my stew simmered and bubbled, heaving volumes of wonderful aromas out into the cabin. Although I might have sneaked a few tastes yesterday, I purposely wanted to wait for a day before filling a bowl. The wait had nothing to do with the rack of ribs and the whole chicken that I slow cooked all afternoon in the barbeque as I sat by a fire in the palace with wine and a cigar. I know that sounds like a lot of food for two people, but the chicken was fairly small.
Finally at bed time I decided to lift the kettle off the stove and set it on the floor for the night.
Oops!! Lifting that 45 pound kettle, empty, onto the stove was awkward, but manageable. It was a good height to stand and add all the makings a little bit at a time over the next hour. And, of course, the additions came a bit at a time over the rest of the day. By nightfall the ol' kettle, with five gallons of stew added, weighed an awful lot more that it had when I lifted it up there.
So, I thought I should lighten it by eating a bowlful for breakfast.

This is a story of good news.
Once, I described my message as a good-news story (intending a tale of happiness) and it was heard as a news story of some special grandeur, spelled out by an investigative reporter.
With no other clues, what might this picture prompt you to say?

Friday night dimensions and reflections from my bird watching chair. The chickadees sleep tonight...

This morning I froze my banana.
I blame it on a friend who sent me the youtube link to Lil' Ed and the Blues Imperials singing "Icicles in my Meatloaf." Said it reminded him of my barbequing in the open air of the palace in mid winter.
By the time I got to my office I was singing "Icicles in my Meatloaf" in my head, while watching for careless pedestrians on the slippery streets, and wondering why icicle doesn't have a "y" like bicycle does.
Under the melodic bliss of pondering the mysteries of the universe I rushed into the warmth of the office, totally oblivious to my poor mid-morning banana snack left shivering on the passenger seat.
Two hours later, in the frost of my cold truck on a minus 20 degree morning, I discovered the Chiquita Kid, stiff as a popsicle.

What a relaxing way to spend an afternoon. And the pleasure lasts, even after coming inside. Smells like I just washed my hair with pine tar shampoo.