Distorted Reality

Snow dampens sound. Even that coal train, over in Kentucky, might not be what I think. I know very little, actually, my sister, on a golf-cart, flagged me down. She says she assumed I'd come in one way, but I came in another. We visit and talk about the past. She has photographs, but I tell her, no, that never happened, I certainly would remember that. Now, of course, everything is frozen, brittle, so I just curl up on the sofa and read. It is cold, ten degrees outside, five below tonight. Pot of soup on the stove, a batch of biscuits in the oven. The power was out for a while so I set out some candles and oil lamps. Moved over to a chair near the stove, reading another Thomas Perry, considering another bowl of soup and another biscuit. I need to wake up at two, to stoke the fire, so I remind myself about a thousand times; I'll sleep in an uncomfortable position, stick one foot outside the covers, leave an ear uncovered. It was lovely this morning, snow covering everything. I walked out in it until my feet were frozen, but tomorrow, well below zero, will be a trial. I should have settled somewhere you could grow citrus. Eight below when I got up at five to add a log. Power was out for several hours. A high of 12 degrees today but I got outside for an exhausting hour, split out some kindling and small sticks, brought wood into the house. The driveway is slick with snow but I don't need to go anywhere. Rereading Margaret Visser's The Rituals Of Dinner, she's a great researcher, and I put the pot of soup on to heat. I was back inside by three in the afternoon because it was just too damn cold. The added benefit of getting outside is that the house seems warmer. My feet got cold, so when I came in I dug out my Red Wing insulated work boots. These are twenty years old, but I only wear them for a week a year, they actually overheat if I'm working and it's not below ten degrees. D called, on his way to Athens to pick up a ceramic show. He was just checking that I was alive. An email from Jenny, B's niece, the naturalist for the state forest, and I'm supposed to read at The Lodge, March 1st, about life on the ridge. She's due with her second child February 28th, so she probably won't be there. I'll need to buy a pack of those singles, Maker's Mark or something, because I do like to have one in my pocket, when I do a reading like this. The public, actual people. I'm tired, I'm going to eat some soup and take a nap.