Getting Home

Sublimation. Ice to vapor without ever becoming a liquid. Bought a few things at an incredibly busy Kroger for the long weekend, the makings for a Ham and Bean soup, an Old Vines Zinfandel, an extra bottle of whiskey; and when TR showed up to cover at the museum, I headed home. The roads were mostly dry until I got into the State Forest where there was still some black ice. Mostly concerned about getting into the bottom of the driveway where I could safely park the Jeep, but it wasn't a problem. Organized my pack, put on crampons, and walked in, my aerobic exercise for the day. The snow on the opposite ridge revealed every contour of the ground. I always forget about that. It's a lovely thing, the way depth perception is so dramatically increased. Four deer feeding. The wind had died down, but it was still a fairly serious hike, with ice under fresh snow; I had my pack, maybe twenty pounds, and a canvas bag in my left hand, maybe another ten pounds, and my mop-handle walking stick in my right hand, so I took it slowly. One can't afford a fall, as isolated as I am, without a cell phone, in weather like this. Achieved the ridgetop without incident. The two steps and deck at the back door were crusted with snow and ice. When I got inside, having banged both feet against the outside wall (I screwed a Goodwill cutting-board just to the left of the door), I still carried a load on the crampons and my boots. What I've learned to do is put down whatever I'm carrying, immediately, and take off the crampons, which makes an ice and snow mess, and quickly sweep up (I keep a broom and dustpan right by the back door) and throw it outside before it has a chance to melt. Then I start a fire. I always have everything necessary to start a fire right at hand, including a small propane torch that I can use to ignite almost anything. You need to think about these things. Be prepared. I think we gained a scant minute of light today. I remember reading somewhere that the gain is loaded toward the morning or evening depending on where we are in the cycle. I'll take whatever I can get. A minute here, a minute there. Light is critical for me, the fact that there will be more of it. It's not that I hate the dark, I just sleep more, and wear more clothes. My black Dell is always an inspiration. She claims to prefer the cold, when we snuggle. I think she's troubled by something she hasn't mentioned. I have to move paintings around in my winter windows, to block the sun, but I don't talk about it, so I know what it's like to avoid an issue. Sometimes it's best to not say anything. I put the beans on to soak in rain water, cull the pebbles and the shriveled, caramelize a large diced yellow onion, add the remaindered package of ham bits, a quart of chicken stock, I'll let this cook on low for twelve hours. A master of disguise. I make a great ham and bean soup. People tend to lower their expectations when confronted by a mumbling skinny dude in an olive green motor-pool jump-suit. It's a fact. Even if what they're mumbling is "The Seafarer" and they're only wearing the jump-suit so they don't get plaster down their neck. Mostly I've conditioned myself to not respond to any kind of peer pressure, but I still bristle when someone tells me something that isn't accurate, or true, or distorts facts in a way that bothers me. Any criticism of Sargent is misguided. Look at Lady Agnew. I'm probably off the track here, but she seems to embody a latent sexuality that is more Sargent than Lady Agnew, more the painter than the sitter. Any painter of portraits reveals in what they choose to notice. (It took me over an hour to write that last sentence so that it wasn't gender specific.) And Sargent is always apparent; one, I looked at for an hour tonight, some kids, playing with lanterns, it's so vibrant. The way color makes a statement.