Something

I'm snuggled in, wrapped in a bathrobe and a blanket. By my standards the house is fairly warm, I can't see my breath. I keep a nine watt compact bulb on in the back entry, so I can see to stoke the fire or pee, and something wakes me. At first I think it's another mouse, but as I collect my thoughts, I realize it's the wind. A full gale blowing through stick trees, branches snapping, and that deep-throated roar when units of wind gust across the ridgetop. The new arctic blast. Often, I'd just roll over, settle deeper into a dream, but I decide to get up, pour a dram, roll a smoke. After the silence of placid snow-days, this is a noisy event, the house groans; and I'm sore, from working firewood, so I groan a bit too. After some debate, I turn on the radio, and it's a great blues set, from the station out of Athens. John Lee and Bonnie. I don't know why I have such an affinity for this music, it just seems to cut through, like Bach does on a regular basis. Draw a parallel line through the Cello Suites and Mississippi John Hurt. Something else, another sound, the last of the leaves, as the trees are stripped bare. A brittle sound. Deep into this, The Shattered World, as it presents itself. I just sit, for several hours, listening to the wind. Of all the things I need, what do I carry in tomorrow? It's a cartoon (right?), or a life and death situation. I'm not sure we've hammered out the playing field. The wind dies as suddenly as it started. I'm going back to sleep. Awakened at the museum this morning, and knew was going to get my ass home, made a pot of coffee, shaved and washed my hair, taking every advantage of hot running water. Stopped at Kroger for the makings of a pork fried-rice, coffee, pita bread, a bottle of whiskey, and a couple of protein shakes. Still four inches of snow in town which I knew meant eight inches on the ridge, but I reasoned that the roads would be clear enough and on a Sunday that there wouldn't be much traffic. Correct on both counts. Loaded up my pack, put on my crampons, and headed up the hill. An epic hike, but I had expected it to be and stopped frequently. The hollow is very beautiful right now, deep in drifts, as the last snow was quite dry and the big winds had swept all the snow from the trees down into it. Tracked a lot of snow into the house, but it didn't matter, because it was below freezing inside and I was able to just sweep it up. Everything inside was frozen, but nothing had burst. Turned on the electric heater and built a fire, a good fire and quickly, as all the wood I had brought inside, before the few days in town, was bone dry. I built a poplar and red maple fire because they burn hot and quickly, and as soon as I put on a piece of oak, I went out and worked in the woodshed. I already had on all of my layers and I couldn't take any of them off until the house warmed a bit. So I split and brought in a couple of armloads of frozen wood: they radiate coldness, which, Mark says, they call 'cold soak' in the UP of Michigan. The olive oil was frozen, the drinking water, the rain wash-water in five gallon buckets, everything inside frozen solid. When the stove gets hot, I go outside and scoop some snow into a five gallon pot, put it on to melt, I need water. Over the course of an afternoon, I get three gallons, and filter it through an old tee-shirt. Problem solved. Potable water. Even my piss-pot is frozen. It's very cold.