Long Nights

I'm thinking I should have a very small mud hut I could retreat to when it got extremely cold. No windows, a tunnel door, something you could heat and light with a couple of utility candles. At the Wood's Hole Institute in Mass. they have a greenhouse they heat with rabbits These are things I think about when I wake up and it's cold in my house. My plans might have been foiled by another inch of snow, but I got up early, performed my ablutions ( washed my face, combed my matted hair, brushed my teeth) and only read for a scant hour, with coffee, then rummaged about for something to wear, thinking I might end up hiking back in. Put my crampons and mop-handle in the Jeep. I drive over to B's old parking space, when he was living at the cabin, and turn around, because it gives a better angle on the top of the driveway. Four-wheel low, first gear, and I get down just fine, collect my mail; by the time I get to town, everything is clear and dry. Library first, then the pub, where Scott has started making a clam chowder on Fridays, then the bank, then I take my list to Kroger and buy enough food to last for a couple of weeks, replenish the bar and my tobacco supply. It was only supposed to get to twenty-five, then get colder, but it warmed above freezing, and when I got back home the driveway looked questionable. I needed to get this load of supplies into the house. I was completely paranoid, suffering an anxiety attack, but it was fine, I got everything unloaded and stashed away, and felt that I had actually accomplished something. It seems a bit strange to view a trip to town as any sort of accomplishment, but three or four times a year, it is one. Compiling a list, figuring the logistics, checking the weather, picking the timeframe. This trip had been on my mind for several days, and I was getting a little desperate about running out of butter. When you eat hot bread you use a lot of butter. I was out of marmalade, which, in the world of biscuits, is a sin; so I bought a bag of sugar and one each of three different citrus and made a couple of jars. It's good, not great, and I spend the rest of the afternoon reading about marmalade. Exhausted, I offer no excuse, from the effort of planning and mounting a foray off the ridge; I think about Thoreau, going into town for dinner and picking up his laundry. (That sidetrack, I think, was caused by the use of the word 'foray', which made me think about Thoreau.) As soon as it was dark I took a nap, woke to either sleet or hail, fed a log to the fire, reheated the last of a stir-fry. I'd kill for a burger and fries. If I drove at night, which I don't do anymore, I would immediately go to town. Instead I bake an acorn squash, one half stuffed with sausage, and one half stuffed with marmalade, and I eat them with a wooden spoon Kim carved for me. The chili I'm going to make tomorrow will surely make you cry. I have access to peppers that you don't even want to think about.