Wednesday, February 18, 2015


It really is an insult. Like a cold slap in the face. You think you're nearing spring? Take that!

Simply put: it's bitter cold. We've been told it's not *just* an Arctic blast, it's a Siberian-Arctic blast.

I think maybe I should have put off trimming Ed's beard. It's like stripping a chicken of its feathers just when the temperatures plummet to their lowest of lows and the wind picks up to make the suffering that much greater.


It's my day to file taxes. I mean, why not just soak in the misery of it all!

Looking out, I see the cheepers are at the barn entrance. Why?! It's  not even 5F outside. It's as if they can't believe their misfortune!


I go to give them extra food treats, knowing that tomorrow, when the winds really pick up, they probably wont come out at all. They hate the cold, they despise a strong wind.

So, a terrible day? No, not at all! For one thing, there is an afternoon with Snowdrop before me!

Whoa, not so fast. Lily, my new old car, possibly disturbed by her new digs refuses to start. Her battery is as dead as I've ever seen on a car. So dead is it, that even cables wont jump-start it.

Et tu, Brute?

Never mind, we'll figure it out tomorrow. For now, I borrow Ed's car.

Snowdrop herself has had a full morning and she uses the afternoon to run through all her possible emotions: serious, anxious, silly, sublime, energetic, and finally exhausted. I leave you with an image of the serious...


...and the sublime.


I drive home just as the sun is setting. The wind has pushed all but a few clouds out of the way. I pause to admire the pink and purple sky.


Beautiful, but cold. I park the car next to Lily and the truck. The rusty Ford pickup hasn't been moved at all this winter and when I glance at it now, I notice a shadow underneath its rusted body.


Yes, this is the night to hide and huddle.

I make my way to the farmhouse and get started on supper. It's definitely the night for hot chili. And maybe a dram of Scotch from the Isle of Islay.