Done

Exhausted. And I forgot to get one of those large pot pies with 50 grams of fat. Had to get to town, snow forecast for the afternoon, so I got up and out early, no problem, the roads clear. Stop at the lake and it is frozen solid with a smooth even coat of snow, except for the several polynyas, open leads, that will persist until temps stay below zero. Usually open water where Mackletree Creek comes in, and one other spot where something thermal, a hot spring? keeps the water open. The crows and ducks are happy to see me, with my fare of stale crackers from the museum. Stop at the bank, go to the library, buy whiskey, fill the truck with gas, over to Kentucky for tobacco and papers, then Kroger, where I buy almost too much to carry. Juice, bouillon cubes, sausage, eggs, bread, cream, coffee, egg noodles, several dry soups, butter, cheese, tinned Mandarin Orange segments (to which I have developed a jones), and a large bar of dark chocolate. On the way home I stop, again, at the lake, to organize my load, pack the pack. It's too much, really, a full backpack, maybe 35 or 40 pounds, plus a canvas bag I must carry in one hand, with the eggs and bread. With crampons and a walking stick, I feel like a Sherpa heading toward the pass. Soon as I get back to the house, I dine mightily on sausage and eggs and toast, a mug of bouillon with a pat of butter melted on top. Can't believe I forgot the pot pie. Cut a bunch of wood, split some, move another rick under the woodshed. Bring in a few arm-loads, and that's it. I'm done. I'm rarely so completely physically exhausted, every muscle group pleading for sweet release. I allow myself an early drink, whiskey and frozen maple sap, and collapse on the sofa. I think I'm ready for the week ahead, 8 days to pack the show, truck it to Columbus on the 20th. Everything in due course. My hands are cramped, my shoulders are sore, I'm bleeding from several minor wounds, but I feel great, I've done what I needed to do, and to hell with everything else. Mica snowflakes define the air. The world is muffled under a blanket. Nothing moves. The last monk comes in, with his burden of firewood, shakes off the snow and laughs. The crow, he says, told him he was a fool, but he already knew that, and had to laugh. At Janitor College there was a really cool instructor who, essentially, taught plunging. He'd studied in Germany, a bright guy, lost his dissertation down a storm sewer in Berlin, so never got his terminal degree and was always a bit edgy about that. Still, there were several plunging techniques that were named for him, the dude was a legend. Plunging 411, the final, he was famous for creating extremely vile clogs. You either sink or swim. Bad analogy. You either clear the clog or end up up to your neck in shit would be closer to the money. But visiting with him was a real treat. Mica was his name, why I remembered him, and he had a kind Polish-Country-Zen thing which hung around him, that you could actually feel. Fucking Mica, offed himself as a protest against salt and sugar levels in packaged foods, flaming himself off a ski-jump into a fiord in Norway. To vary my diet, I have the chili on cheese-grits. Excellent.