Ice Crystals

My Dad was ninety yesterday and won't make any extreme efforts to stay alive, nonetheless, still alive. Still cooks breakfast, always his specialty, for anyone around. Rereading Zane Gray. Mom must be 82 or 3, she's lost track, nobody knows, she might as young as 81 or as old as 85, she says she's lost track, but I think she knows. I go out to get an arm-load of wood and ice forms where my nose drips. Near zero, I know from experience, but calm. Winter camping, I can always retreat to my down bag, sleep through the worst of it. Ratified. Who I am. Slept too long this morning, this weather is tiring, and didn't catch the fire, had to start all over. When I get it going I go outside and split more pine starter sticks and kindling. Cut and split some Sycamore. Brunch of cheese grits with acorn meal, biscuits, cup of tea with a slug of whiskey; finish "Arctic Dreams" and start rereading "About This Life", I'm a Barry Lopez fan. McCord mentioned Christopher Smart, especially "Jubilate Agno" and I'm sure I have a copy somewhere but I can't find it. During the course of looking for it, I count 250 linear feet of bookshelves, and there are thousands of small press books still in boxes. Before I change out of insulated boots, I don sunglasses and walk out the logging road to the south. The sun is so bright on so much snow, the shadows so distinct, it's hard to tell what's real. I sit for so long, on a stump I frequent, that I'm in danger of frostbite; no chance of fire, I take off my gloves and roll a last smoke. Two crows, ragged and raucous, wake me from my reverie and I slog home. The house is a mess, the sawdust and leaves that I track inside; I sweep a few places: where I change footgear, where I perch at the island, where I place odd chunks of wood to thaw in front of the stove; but it barely makes a dent in the extent of mess. I'm dirty, but it's too cold to even consider cleaning myself. I need to go to town tomorrow, carry a heavy pack up the hill, cut the rick I've stacked under the woodshed. These are mandates, not negotiable. Lopez recounts talking with an Eskimo hunter, who, when asked about religion, said he didn't have any, what he had was fear, that the margin of error was so small. I know what he means. If this weather were to continue, I'd be forced to shoot a deer, and I know where they are, so it's not a logistical problem for me, where to build my stand, or anything like that, I'd shoot a doe bedded down, because I know where they sleep, and there'd be none of that adrenal panic that taints the meat. I've shot more sleeping deer than anyone I know, a brain shot with a .22. I'm a merciless hunter when I need to be. The last deer I killed was from an upstairs window in my house, right through the screen. Fuck convention. When I told the last Board President, I thought he was going to choke to death. I had to tell the story several other times. Then it become a 'set piece', a routine, and where is the reality in that? Classic, right? I spend the rest of the afternoon thinking about that. When I make something out of whole cloth, it might be more real than the closest observation.