Bedside Manner

I catch the fire perfectly at 2 in the morning. Rekindle with poplar branches. It's colder than anticipated, with half a moon and a few stars. By 3:30, and half a novel later, it's warm enough in the house that I take off the hooded sweatshirt I sometimes wear over my bathrobe. Balmy. I'm wearing the fingerless gloves Linda knit me, and the watch cap she knitted when she was offstage. I do need to get to town because I need butter, oil, and some bacon. Fried potatoes in the last of the sausage fat and they were wonderful. My right shoulder is a bit sore, from bow-sawing the poplar, but I didn't want to listen to the chainsaw, and a little soreness comes with the game. Pain and suffering. A few scratches from blackberry canes that I wipe clean with alcohol, nothing untoward, I always wipe off the blood when I come inside, take off my boots, shed a layer. Nothing we can't handle. Two phones and a secretary, I could build a bridge. Only half-kidding, because I could build a bridge, but that's not the point. Lost power while I was writing and lost a paragraph. No weather, no wind, just a black-out at an early overcast dark. Read with my headlamp for a couple of hours. Then took a nap. The power coming back on woke me, stoked the fire. Both B and TR have referred to me, in the past week, as an interesting character. The two of them are interesting characters. Split wood and carried a couple of ricks inside against the projected snow and very cold temps. I feel pretty good about who I am right now. Warmed a bit today, and it's rain right now, just before it turns solid. Sleet, then snow. I should be trapped by tomorrow morning. I'll need to spend an hour outside, to replace the rick I'll burn, but I need to cook and clean out the fridge. Which certifies that tomorrow night, on the compost pile, there will be a performance piece. Two coons and a possum go into a bar. Already it's snow, falling straight down. B and I were talking about that, the way snow muffles sound.