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Saxony's Ploetz Cuirassiers, an illustration lifted from the Kronoskaf website, which has thus far guided my spectacularly glacial painting of 30 28mm Eureka Saxon cuirassiers purchased all the way back in October 2016.
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A gray, cool Saturday here in Mid-Michigan with rain in
the forecast. The Grand Duchess is away at a conference, so it's just
"The Boys" here at home. The Young Master (almost 15) has retreated to
his room for something or other following breakfast while I have stolen
back down here to Zum Stollenkeller (masquerading as my office) with a second mug of coffee and both cats comfortably ensconced nearby. Enjoying the
late morning and still in my pajamas!
Not much planned for today
beyond designing a couple of promotional flyers for workshops my department is presenting (small parties we will throw?) in October and November. With maybe a bit of on the next podcast script.
More important, I am toying with the idea of returning for an hour or two this evening to
those 30 Eureka Saxon cuirassiers, purchased back in late 2016 and started during
Winter 2024. Can't quite recall where I stopped in the painting process early last Spring, but it's high time to get back on the horse and
maybe wrap 'em up before the Christmas holidays, which are not that far away now.
Beyond
that, and thinking ahead as we do, I'd like to get back to the infantry
and start brush work on some white-coated SYW Austrians, or possibly
Anspach-Beyreuth troops in dark blue. There are also some Austrian
hussars (a large regiment of 40+) in the Drawer of Lead to my immediate
left (Hussars? Really, Stokes? You? I know, I know. . .) and some 18th century civilians in
need of painterly attention. If that weren't enough,
there is a large foam core and card bridge to design, cut out,
assemble, and paint at some point.
The list of hobby-related things to do goes on and on. Could it be that I am, at heart, a model railroad hobbyist in disguise? You know? They always seem to be at work on one corner, or another of their layouts. And those are sometimes many years in the making. The real crazies will reach the end, enjoy it for a while, but tear it all down and start again. Not necessarily due to a move of house or anything, but simply to improve upon previous efforts or tackle something new. The journey rather than the end destination in other words. All very Summer Holiday and Where Angels Go, Trouble Follows. But I'm showing my age and cinematic predilections here!
Returning to the present for a moment, I hope
2025 will allow for more "me time" at the painting table although there
will be a promotion committee and another scholarship awards committee
in the winter-early spring that, I know already, will throw a large
wrench into the works. To channel the late Rod Steiger as Napoleon for a
moment, "Why? Why Elba??!!" Why do I do this to myself?
By
and large, I enjoy what I do, but academia has an insidious way of taking
over, bleeding into every corner of your life, and sucking up any and all available time with one thing and
another before you realize it. 30+ years ago, when I worked in a supermarket -- managing the dairy department, unloading 50-foot trucks with a manual pallet jack (thank you very much), and punching the clock -- evenings and half
the weekend (at least) were mine. Although funds and space for toy
soldiering were more scarce at that point. Some kind of cruel irony there.
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On a totally unrelated note, today will see me climb a step-ladder in the kitchen to scrape off the egg residue that ended up there while fixing dinner for Young Paul and myself Thursday evening. It was to have been soft-boiled eggs, toast, and other typically breakfast foods. We felt like shaking things up a bit in Sonja's absence, you know?
Keep in mind, I've done this 1000 times since my youth and am actually kind of handy in the kitchen. My skills are a bit more than survival level at the stove, and I have several specialties that are actually quite complex in the preparation. It ain't just Spaghetti-O's and boiled hotdogs in other words. But I digress.
Well, yours truly had the bright idea of putting the eggs on to boil and retiring back down here for just a few minutes to wrap up a couple of work-related tasks as the eggs cooked. 25 minutes or so later, I realized my own forgetfulness, rushed upstairs to find the water all boiled away, and the eggshells turning brown as they burned in the small pot atop the stove.
Keep in mind, we have three egg times that ring as well as the timer built into the stove-oven combo. But did I set any of them to go off? Oh, no. That woud have been the intelligent thing to do. And the simple answer.
Up in the kitchen, as I removed them from the heat and turned toward the sink, "Pop!!!" Egg all over the place. And all over yours truly. In my hair, on my face, all over my clothes. What a frightful mess it was. Remarkably, I managed to hold my tongue and not fill the air with blue language, but I certainly thought it. For his part, my teen-aged son is still laughing about about ol' Dad's culinary faux pas, as did Sonja when I told her on the phone late that evening.
Should've gone with my initial impulse and called out for a pizza.
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In any case, kriegspilerly regards to everyone here, and Happy Weekend!
Kind Regards,
Stokes
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