Cold Blast

I get up to stoke the stove and it's cold outside, first night in the teens, back to bed, burrowing under. Clear dawn, I walk over and the driveway, frozen hard, is doable, so I clean house a bit, collect laundry, head to town. During the wash cycle I go to Big Lots and buy a few things, light things, dehydrated Asian soups mostly, because I'll be carrying everything back up the hill. Treat myself to a footer and jalapeno poppers, go below the floodwall and watch the river traffic; after I eat I walk the wrack line to see what's washed ashore. 20 oz soda bottles are the most common litter, several balls, a dead dog (black, lab-like), a section of snow fence that I almost take (the slats would be perfect kindling), an ugly end table, three foam coolers, a fair amount of pre-cut fire-wood, but I'm quite a distance from the truck. Drive home the long way around, so I can come completely up the creek that begins on my property. Upper Twin is a lovely thing, a meandering drainage over slate falls. I stop several places, then clean the undercarriage of the truck by going forward and backward over the ford below the bridge. Letting it drip-dry for a few minutes, I'm rolling a cigaret on the hood when two deer hunters come out of the woods, they're half-tanked, I roll them each a cig, and we talk hunting. They both know where I live, but I've never seen them before. Everybody knows where I live, the locals. I'm that guy that lives on the ridge. I am, truly a stranger. This area, this region of the country, is so family oriented, that I stick out like a sore thumb. I holiday alone, my idea of a good time is not going out for several days in a row. I don't even know my neighbors. It's a failing, in a way, to not be more integrated, but I'm avoiding involvement right now, I need a lot of time alone. I'm frying some bacon right now, because when you don't know what your fixing for dinner frying bacon is a good first step. First off, the house smells good, even vegetarians like the smell of bacon, been my experience they'd eat a slice, occasionally, if there was a closet close by. Spend the afternoon cutting wood and over-heating the house, drag in the sheep-watering trough and take a bath, walk around in my new bath-robe, looking like a character from Wodehouse, shouting imprecations. WHERE'S MY SHERRY? IF THAT DOG HAS MY SLIPPER AGAIN, I SWEAR I"LL KILL HIM. WHAT DO YOU MEAN MY COLLARS HAVEN'T BEEN DONE! In a British accent. It was embarrassing, really, but quite funny. When I turn on the radio later, to hear Crossing Boundaries, it's Skip James, a transport of blues. And this is where I fall, when it comes to music.They move me like nothing else.The blues. Many fish bite if you've got good bait. Mind games. I give her my cheek, we buzz.