Groundskeeper Albie

I am house-sitting for the brothers while they are away at their annual meeting in New York this week. Much of the work came over the weekend, when I was in charge of guesthouse duties for the church group here from Friday to Sunday. Some of my responsibilities included:

• Picking up mail from the post office downtown;
  
• Folding, stocking, and ordering linens for the guesthouse:
  
  
• Cleaning the dining room tables and dishes (the latter with the help of a nifty industrial dishwasher):
  
  
• Taking out the compost (because we haven't yet learned to pocket mulch):
  
  
• Maintaining the bookstore in good condition:
  
  
• Packing and restocking the teas and coffees for sale:
  
  
• Ringing the bell to announce offices and meals over the weekend:
  
  
• Keeping a steady stream of coffee brewing over the weekend (this last job was the most time-consuming, as the churchies drank like fishes):
  
  
  
• Giving an introductory orientation to the retreatants;
  
• And, of course, closing down and locking up in the evening.
  

It was much more structure and responsibility than I was used to from the last seven weeks. But it felt like holy work (except when I swore after breaking a coffee mug) and a small gesture of thanks to the brothers for their kindness and hospitality.

I would be remiss not to mention all the assistance from Nancy (guesthouse director, thawer of communion biscuits), Marisa (guesthouse assistant, nurse-in-training), Luis (supercook), and Michael (weekend support, jack of all trades, soon-to-be-reader of this blog). Without their help, I might have accidentally set the house on fire.

I was a little sad, however, to miss Los Angeles Pride this weekend. A couple of times, while making coffee for a church group comprising gentlemen in their 50s and up, my mind wandered wistfully to Joan Jett, Tiffany remixes, and this: