No Way

Had to laugh. I'd walked over to the head of the driveway, to see what the footing was like, and I could barely stand upright. A new layer of frost on top of an old layer of frost. Rummaging around I decided to make some potato dumplings. Made a pouch of the Idaho Reds, set half of it aside to fry for breakfast cakes, then mixed in a finely minced onion and a large handful of bacon bits, formed them with two tablespoons, rolled them in bread crumbs, then fried in the pork fat. A horseradish/mayo dipping sauce. I recommend these. Called TR at the museum, I knew he'd be alone and I wanted to talk for a few minutes with another human being. Bright and interesting conversation, I told him I'd be in, next week sometime, to see the new exhibits. He stays current, so he catches me up to speed on what's going on, and I appreciate that, because I'm always so far behind. Finally, some wind, wakes me after I'm bedded down, and it will certainly help, drying things out. It's dry in the house, because of the stove, but outside, between saturated air and saturated frozen ground there's no place for the moisture to go. It hangs around, as ground fog, and the humidity is very high; when the atmospheric moisture drops, sublimated vapor rises and disappears, often described as smoke, which it most resembles. There are times it seems like a vast illusion, and other times, sucking the sweetness from an oak gall, that it seems pretty specific. Got up and puttered about, finally heated up water on the hot plate. It's fifty degrees and the ground is a soggy mess. I can see where Ryan locked-up his brakes near the top of the hill: a scary sled ride. I wash a sink full of dishes and concentrate attention on cleaning myself. Sponge bath (I might not be able to strip down naked for several weeks), wash my hair, a complete change of clothes, trim my beard, pluck errant hairs, cut my nails. It's an afternoon at the spa. I emerge looking more like an eccentric professor and less like a hard-scrabble redneck with an axe to grind. Generally, on Sunday, I allow myself to rant about some injustice. I've done this forever, since high school debates. I excelled at debate, and the consensus was that I'd end up as a lawyer/politico or a speech writer. I was always interested in the law, and more especially the Constitution, and I could have done that easily, gotten that degree, taught Constitutional Law, but I've always been so easily distracted. First you run off with the circus (or spend a season in summer-stock theater), then you learn to print, then you build houses, and the law is less attractive than actually making something with your hands. Muted sound of wind in stick trees. It mimics music and I often hear little snippets of Bach or an Eric Clapton riff, sometimes drifts of conversation. The crows were out today, but no other birds. I micro-waved a couple of mice for them, and they seemed appreciative, at least in so far as I can judge their behavior. I don't speak Crow. Polenta, made from left-over grits, is very absorbent, not unlike eggplant, and I like to fry rounds of them until they're quite brown. I love this hot with a cold salsa. I used to form the patty in a can, now I just a slap a serving into hot bacon fat and form it with the spatula. One less dish to clean. These grits, from Logan Turnpike Mills, are one of the best things I've ever eaten. Cheese grits with cracklings, some greens and pot liquor, a really sharp blue cheese, reading at the island. No fire and I'm warm and clean. The wind has come up, which should help dry things out. If I can get out I'll resupply for February, plenty of wood, plenty of books, I could stay inside for the entire month. Careful ventures to the woodshed for a wheelbarrow load every other day. Put on crampons and walk the logging road. I could get to town, a time or two, but I might not. If someone calls, and says they want to slog in for a visit, I tell them to bring whiskey and cigaret papers. It doesn't happen often, in February, an average of less than one over the last fifteen years. It can be pretty tough, walking up the hill in winter, with a pack, with horizontal snow slapping you in the face. I do my Basho imitation, then a Sherpa routine, call off the stations of the cross, closer, my god, to thee, and go outside to pee because Mac and NPR have been telling me that I can see all five visible planets tonight, at the same time. Of course, since this is Ohio, I can't see a fucking thing. Living in the far west spoils you, in terms of the sky.