Gas pours from the dead fridge, Morgan,
and what I'd like to do is telephone your mother for some advice, but I'll probably go out to the patio until it settles down.
Here I am, on the patio, where it's quite nice -- that elbow of trees that the moon likes to plunge into when we vacation here in autumn, the mountains just high enough to collect the light fuzz of snow. It smells of gas out here. Perhaps I should close the door, but I'll probably go back inside to check on the fridge.
Okay, I just looked at the gas, and it slowed down. I do wish I could find your mother's telephone number, but alas.
Anyways, hope the house is fine. Hi to Enrique.
-- Lindsay