We wake this morning to a reading of 0 degrees Fahrenheit outside. That's 32 degrees below freezing. Or -17.8 Celsius. Take your pick.
Looking ahead, I see that the weekend will give us a couple of days above freezing. With rain. Then it's back to the bone chilling cold. To spite me -- no snow. Ever. I mean, I give up!
I ask myself -- do birds feel the cold? Do they shiver and hope for better days?
(this has to be the European Starling, no?)
I know our chickens huddle in the barn, avoiding at least the wind. The sheep shed floor heater is in a corner of the barn and it offers a tiny modicum of heat and protection. They discovered it long ago and rarely move far from it during the coldest days. At night they squeeze together in the coop and share what heat is in their frail molted bodies.
Scandinavian types keep sounding off about how you're not going to be cold if you wear proper clothing outside and to an extent that's true of course. But I need to take off my mitten to take, say, this picture.
(a tree swallow maybe?)
And for the short walk to the barn, I don't bother with a scarf. Which I then regret. So yes, it is my fault that I'm feeling cold outside. But I would very much like it if it wasn't quite this bitter this early in the season.
(a robin for sure)
Not surprisingly, I am grumpy. Ed gets the brunt of it. Of course, it isn't his fault that the landscape is so dark and brittle and cold. But it's on these coldest days that I look to the farmhouse for comfort and joy, and when I come down in the morning, I inevitably see clutter from the night before. Typically, I just take a few minutes to tidy things where I can, but every once in a while I give him a deep glare, because of course it's his clutter. (I've been reading too many articles about the continued weight of housework falling on female shoulders. But, since neither of us are the angry types, he just gets "the glare.") He tidies it up and offers to take me out to dinner, to go out to see Snowdrop's show, to maybe even go to Chicago with me this weekend. Full of good will and good intentions, but of course dragging him to places where he does not want to be is an exercise in a different kind of frustration. I tell him -- just think of doing something for me that you know I'll like doing together.
But I do that all the time!
Like, what can you put on that list from, say, yesterday?
I bought a new old truck!
(indeed... only twenty-two years old...)
That was for me??
In great part! I know how much you hated parking next to that other wreck.
God, how I love that funny guy... And then we eat breakfast.
There is no way either of us wants to go anywhere, so I drag out my under-the-table stationary bike which I like well enough and I put in a dutiful 30 minutes of moderate pedaling, and then I slip into my retail mode and buy myself a sweater. Why? Because moths have eaten through my reliable cardigan. It's that kind of a morning.
I pick up the kids and ask them if they had outdoor recess. Yes they did! Hard to imagine it being fun for anyone, but on the upside, it's good for them. Right? Right??
It's another one of those packed afternoons, where, in addition to the minutes of play...
... and the book reading, I have to feed them well because Snowdrop has a Great Catherine performance tonight. It's her last one and I promised I would come see her again as she takes on the role of Claire, that indignant fiancee to the English captain. Guaranteed laughter!
But first we do a complicated switch around. I drop her at the theater, him with his dad and go to Trader Joe's for a small posy of flowers. Sparrow will come back later, with his mom, to join me at the theater. He's seen the play once already (as have I) and insists on seeing it again. Too, he's been parading around his 1st grade classroom throwing out Claire's lines of indignation -- kids pick up things so quickly! -- and I think he wants to hear them again from the horse's mouth. His favorite, which he says impetuously, as is expected: Do not presume to call me your little angel mother! I can't imagine what his classmates must think of that, but Sparrow is a boy with many friends, most of them girls, so I think they imagine it to be something delightfully clever. (Snowdrop's favorite line is also my favorite -- Oh! Dare your grandmother! Where is my Charles?)
Before I head over for the 6 pm performance, I stop at Barriques. Once again I have a half hour to kill. Straight out of a Hopper painting. Alone, this time with a glass of wine. But I cannot say that I am lonely. Too busy for that. Enjoying this rare moment of complete solitude.
(with a bar of chocolate for home...)
The show is lovely and Snowdrop again steals some laughs. A stiffly proper English fiancee, facing Russian debauchery... it's a great role to play and she puts her heart and soul into it.
(flanked by Empress Catherine and Patiomkin)
(with her BF from school, and her BF from the cast)
(Sparrow, trying out the stage)
And then I come home. Last night's chili tastes so fine on a bitter cold day. The house is unusually tidy! My sweet guy is making room on the couch, for our evening of food, film, and total warmth. And love...
