Wash Day

I had to shut down last night when serious weather moved in. Heavy rain in sheets, slashing, wind-borne. I sat in the dark, listening to the posts and beams distribute the loading. Quickly harvest enough water for my immediate needs, then go back to sleep for a few hours. Late dawn, steely gray overcast, warm house; still raining, flood watch on the radio. Heat the first round of water and wash a sink full of dishes, then heat a second round of water for me. Strip down for a sponge bath, then wash my hair twice, washing out underwear in the rinse water. I use four gallons of water, which is a large amount for me, but it amounts to most of the wash water I've used in the past week, and I've replenished the entire amount by the end of the day. Between afternoon showers I take a walk and the driveway has firmed. When I get home I collate my lists into a master plan for getting into town and back on the ridge with what I need. Of course the frogs get it wrong again, but they are ever hopeful, and I heard them breeding last night just before the rain. Too early, but their chorus brings a grin to my face, and I wouldn't be surprised to see some green shoots of fern on the protected bank of the driveway. Today, even with the house closed up, and rain on the roof, I can hear the frogs mating. I know there's still serious weather ahead, but after you hear the frogs, the various difficulties become finite. Ground fog moves in, moisture desperately escaping, and I can't see across the hollow; it's so incredibly bleak that by all rights I should be depressed, or at least reflective, but I'm in a great mood: I'm clean, in clean clothes, left-overs for dinner, not many cares. I burn a little desert sage in a bowl, on the cold stove-top (February 21 and no fire) because the house is musky with being closed. Makes me think about camping in Utah, where we always put the fire to bed with sage. It's weird to be so clean, you wash off all of the natural oils and the traumatized skin contracts, an entire different set of itches. Mostly centered in areas that you can't quite reach. I control this with Witch Hazel soaked gauze pads that I manipulate with a bamboo back-scratcher I got at Big Lots for a dollar. A warm day, this deep into February, is a blessing, and I take every advantage. Clean the stove, dump ashes, bring in wood, split kindling. I was reading several of the polar explorers, with special attention to their supplies, also the manifests of whaling ships, heading out for two or three years. Completely fascinating. What Sir Francis needed, to get around the world. At the end of his life Owen Chase squirreled away sea biscuits in his attic. The usual answer, from the Yukon to the Hebrides, is beans on toast. You either grow or trade for the legume, and make bread from grass seeds. Holed up, in southern Ohio, I'm trying to understand that whole transition, grinding seeds into flour. High protein cakes are easier to carry. Pemmican. Cornmeal is subject to rot, but you can store dried corn for a very long time; grind it when you need it. I have to laugh about how I could be clear about anything. Go to the library, stop at Kroger and get some oysters.