Split Fingers

This time of year, no matter what I do, I'm going to end up with very painful split fingertips. I can postpone it, by lathering my hands with lotion and wearing latex gloves at night, but what fun is that? It really stands out, if you're the only guy at the bar wearing rubber gloves. I'm sure it looks like something it's not. The story of my life, but I make no excuses. There was still a couple of inches of snow when I achieved the ridge, walking carefully, because the ground was rotten and I was trying to avoid a fall, but worth the effort, because it was so beautiful. Often those things that attract us the most are the most dangerous. Driving home tonight, no snow in town, when I got to 125 there was a skiff, when I got to the ridge there was several inches. It was quiet. Linda's correct, the difference between this and that. I stop a few times, looking at tracks, confused by life. Today was like yesterday only more so, sub-contractors everywhere. The event tomorrow is The Missoula Children's Theater performing for the Catholic school, using some of students as additional cast, and they rehearsed all afternoon. I hate most children's theater, left early as we couldn't get anything done. Still snow on the ridge, despite temps in the forties. Beginning to see some buds on the Poplar trees. Walking in I could hear the wet-weather springs; at one place it was squirting out of the slope and I drank a couple of handfuls. Excellent water. After this weekend (temps up to sixty), when the ground firms up, there should be morels at my early spots. I picked up an extra pound of butter, best to be prepared, and flipped through a couple of mushroom cookbooks to see what I might try that's new and different. The first batch is always just cooked in butter and served on toast. It's traditional. Just noticed that because the posts (tree trunks) and beams (36 feet of 6x10's, and 11 4x8's 12 feet long) that form the structure of my house, begin to absorb heat during the day, that it's much easier to get the house heated at night. I'm warm right now, 60 degrees, and I've only had a fire going for an hour. Fox tracks at the compost heap and the pack of dogs haven't been back since I shot them with rock salt. It's all good. Those miniature iris will be up soon and I'm looking forward to the splashes of color. The black, brown, and white world of winter migrates to the south; mitigates my discomfort, that I'll be able to see in color. Winter is bleak, and hard, unless you can spend it in the Keys, watching birds. Which I would prefer, but the discomfort and the questionable footing keeps me on my toes, so there's something to be said for a slippery slope. D and I had sharp words at each other this morning, he misunderstood something I said, thought it was a criticism of him personally, and it wasn't, it was just a passing comment about inter-departmental communication. This event was not on the calendar, and I thought they at least owed me that. My right thumb has a crack, that under a magnifying glass looks like the Grands Canyon. I'm surprised I'm not dead. Death by split finger-tips.