Storm Front

First is the line of wind. Wakes me from a sound sleep. The last few leaves rattle against the metal roof. You have to pee to the leeward. A few stars, but nothing like living on the Western Slope, where the entire universe was visible. It's more constrained here, in southern Ohio, one star and the shadow of a moon. It's a different mind-set. Sometimes I listen to Rostropovich and sometimes I listen to Eric Clapton. Just saying. What I noticed, after the holiday, was that I enjoyed being alone. Mumbling to myself. When I flip the breaker on the fridge, it's very quiet, and what I hear is different. Cage, "4:33", or any other situation in which almost nothing happens. Staff meeting at work, and I'm still trying to figure out when somebody else will be at the museum, so that I can leave early or arrive late. Told everyone that I was leaving early today and tomorrow, because I need to prepare for the cold. The hospital people set-up for their Xmas party tomorrow, and I don't so much have to do anything, as point out where things are. I made a list and crossed off about half of the chores, then told Mark I needed to get home. Carried in a light pack. First walk in this year, with crampons on crusted snow and ice, but the wind had died down and it wasn't too bad. Lovely, actually, late afternoon light revealing contour, the lay of the land. As soon as I got home I turned on the Infra-Red heater, donned my motor-pool jumpsuit, and headed to the woodpile. Split out kindling and starter sticks, and felt good about my place in the world. The house was cold, 38 degrees, but I can deal with that, and I split out enough small stuff to get me through the next couple of very cold days. Scored a 35 gallon trash can, with lid, from a dumpster (it has a has a hole in the bottom), and I intend to fill it with extremely dry kindling. I had a little trouble getting a good fire going, because the wood was frozen. I took out a comma, I hope it was the right thing to do. The very fact that I could think about a comma probably means I'm OK. It's early yet, but I have a great bed of coals, and I top-load a really gnarly twist of oak that will probably burn all night. Enough residual heat for water to shave in the morning. The way my days are constellated. I'm breaking in a recently discarded mop-handle as a walking-stick, and I think it must be left-handed, it just doesn't feel right. The left-over food is over the hill, so I fry some bacon. Fry some shredded potatoes in bacon fat, and fry an egg in bacon fat, a nice piece of toast, with butter and jalapeno jam. My road to perdition.