Fox Trot

Twice in one day, socializing, effectively killing time until the driveway has a chance to dry, people recognize me by my voice. The full gray beard is a clever disguise, but my voice gives me away. Defined by word choice and diction. Not only defined, but identified. Driving home I was thinking about definition, almost drove off the road to avoid hitting a very confused young deer. I drive slowly through the forest, so it can mitigate between outside and inside, stop, at the bottom of the hill, collect my mail, shift into four-wheel drive. Driving up, with slick mud and ruts, requires concentration, you need to know exactly where your front wheels are, so I was focused on hitting my marks, momentum, gaining purchase on that last rise to the top. The fox appeared, right on the outer reach of the second curve. I was dumb-founded. I couldn't afford to pay any attention. She trotted all the way to the top, then led me over to my house. Fucking fox wants an apple. The "trot" is merely a method of moving, I know that, but it's such a dance, the fox trotting. I don't view it as a sign, it doesn't signify; a fox acting like a fox is not acting. My dozen oysters this week are 18, because, the sea-food lady explains, they never sell them all anyway. I make a version of the scallop dish, steaming them open in a little clam juice, with a reduced sauce, served on braised endive. It's excellent and half the price of making the dish with scallops. It needs a brightly colored side dish, because it looks rather bland, and I've haven't been able to decide what to do about that. The original recipe calls for deep-fried shredded beets, which I can't bring myself to try. Something bright green would work, or roasted and caramelized peppers with red onion. I'd heard snow mentioned, but I wasn't paying any attention, turned on the radio because NPR gives the weather on the hour, and yes, starting as rain tonight, turning to snow tomorrow. It's seems arrogant, or maybe just stupid, to say that I'm not even remotely concerned, that's to say that I'm not overly worried, about my ability to survive. I will heat up the kitchen tomorrow, enough to take a sponge bath and wash my hair, and bring in some wood. My various piles of reading matter are teetering, and dust bunnies are collecting in the corners, the study of a man at rest. Not having to make excuses or explain my living habits is part of the equation, the quiet is another, and the fact that time slows down, in winter, on the ridge. A simple chore, bringing in an armload of wood, starting unshod, at my desk, in the spring or fall, I can accomplish in maybe five minutes; mid-winter it can take an hour or more; some days, all you can do is keep a good fire burning. In my essay, "An Apology For Stupidity" I argued that being stupid was reason enough, that not knowing wasn't that different from knowing. That playing with their ball, on their court, by their rules, wasn't fair, and that you should file a lawsuit, or take away their kitchen privileges. Winter Weather Warning, bunch of snow starting tonight (already started here, late morning) continuing through the night and tomorrow. Fall into deep winter mode again. Cracklings and bean soup with cornbread, stack the extra winter garb near my chair, bring in another armload of wood. I do get outside for an hour, and it's an extremely desolate scene. The dead and dormant, everything shades of the same color, my work boots encased in an ice and mud mixture, and my beard slightly frozen. A hiatus in the afternoon, then a rain starts, changing over to snow. I'm deep into another Lescroart crime novel, well-wrapped, with a drink at hand; I'll do the cooking tomorrow, the cracklings, the bean soup, the cornbread; for tonight I just had sardines on toast, with a thick slice of onion. Started snowing hard at four in the afternoon. I'd better send this.