Monday, December 13, 2010
Zero degrees outside and going down. well, i' m not afraid of peeping toms tonight...
Not that i would show fear in the event of someone lurking to satisfy a primal urge, but the poor fellow would
freeze his mustache to the window panes if he ventured out this fine Canadian evening.
No, i didn't say i live in Canada, rather the air from there has taken leave of the Inuit and moved southward
without papers. Wind chills snap the top of my head and bite like a tenacious wolverine, my gloves shake
and nip at my fingers, my sheepskin boots hug my deadened toes.
I run on frozen snow to return from an errand, i didn't want to use the poor old car, it's too cold for that!
So what would a voyeur do out on such an eyeball stripping evening? Whatever he would believe he could
find within, he would be disappointed by the thickness of my snuggle-wear. As i would peel the
camp-ground certified polyfiber robe from my reluctant body, a smooth arctic vest would hide form and
revelation. As i would divest myself of this layer, another would spoil the view from the seeker; warmies
asunder, i would shudder in a generic no style gown of purest oft washed flannel. And turn off the light.
Oh, to save electricity of course, and wash in the dark, soap lathers better in front of the heater. Toothpaste
foams sweeter in the half light of the green phosphorus night bulb. And flesh stands firm against reviving
Too cold to push the lap blanket away, so i' ll commune with the laptop till the fireplace demands attention.
Below zero now, expected to be -29 soon, and i remember worse times in my temperate home in France.
When the hot water bottle froze at our feet on unforgiving mornings. When the blue stove ate all of a
summer's wood gathering in a brutal month. When we huddled in bed with mittens to read all day between
stirring the stew or feeding the fire.
Too cold to think, if you are chilling tonight, send a warm thought to stave off chilblains scratching at my
heels. The tall and stately ceilings of this fortress do nothing for the writer's soul, pure inconvenience in bad
weather. No use thinking of summer breeze and foreign beaches, imagination ill serves me in times of
body alert...i refuse to venture in the bastions of my cerebral ballast where i have stashed memories untold.
Too crisp out there to visit on such a night as this.
The last ice storm tore the electric pole and left many of us sans electricity. Oh, that means time to read the
orphaned books by candlelight, with gloves and scarves, the best of wintry fashion. The chickens have
hunkered into straw, the cat has found my lap, all's well in the Midwest where the buffalo roams in my
galloping heart and the coyotes are smart enough to curl up in the lair.
Woolen socks, now that's better.