More Prep

Another big storm in the forecast for late tonight, 2 days, more snow, but maybe not as cold. Still, I change my plans, suit-up early and cut the rick in the shed, then down the hill. The truck is buried under six inches of snow, with a layer of ice under that. Takes and hour to get it clear, then to town. Library where the new Coetzee, "Summertime" was on hold for me, liquor store for a back-up bottle of whiskey, and Kroger for juice (frozen: tangerine, grape, and orange/ pineapple); some pretty good menudo soup so I don't have to cook tripe in the house); couple of packages of decent dried mashed potatoes because they are so damned fast; butter, then cross the river into Kentucky and buy some tobacco, a couple of packs of papers. Almost no snow in town. Today is that exciting day, following a big storm, drier air, and a random puffy wind, and the result is tree snow. If you live in the woods, it's a big deal. The sun is out and often an entire tree's branches will release the snow at the same time, in the same gust. It's a phenomenon I've watched for decades, wrote a paper for the Janitor Quarterly, "The Thermodynamics Of Trees" that was well received, after that frigid year of post-graduate work in Hokkaido. Lunched with D and Carma at the pub, splurged for a Harp on draft. Stopped at the lake to feed the ducks the crackers that collect where the ladies at the museum eat lunch. Say that twice quickly. I left out two commas, to see how it felt, in that next-to-last sentence, the penultimate sentence. The ducks were cool, they don't threaten the way geese do. Language is so ambiguous. After I feed the ducks, while I'm in the parking lot, a turn-off really, I pack my pack. I've done this thousands of times, weight at the bottom, something flat against my back. And walking up, I stop, usually 5 or 6 times, just look around, bring my breathing down to normal, consider the tracks in the snow. When I finally get home, I barely catch the morning fire, then outside, to spilt a week's oak, and fill the wood-box with dry billets of sycamore and some splits from walnut off-cuts. Thank god for left-overs, I'm exhausted and my feet hurt, but oddly exhilarated, too, because I'm set for a couple of weeks, no matter what happens. Put dinner on to heat, go back outside, sweep the snow from an outside rick and bring it under the shed. Split wood, carry water. For six or eight weeks life is very difficult, but that means that the rest of the year I'm free as a bird, not a bad trade-off, I think. The orchard as a playing field.