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| Bird walking; Deb Marshall photo |
Last day of February – finally. The world’s gone to hell and
is still traveling beyond; and still the snow continues to fall.
Last week I thought, “we’ve only got another week of
February, it shouldn’t be wicked cold anymore, I can put away the true winter
coat.” So I did. Then I got it back out again Monday. I think I won’t put it
away again for a couple of weeks, at least.
The true-winter coat is one of two we bought in Montreal,
maybe 30 years ago now. It’s mid-thigh length, has a collar lined with fleece
that rises to mid-ear, a flap over that that rises to just below the nose and
snaps shut holding the collar up high; has an inside sleeve as well as an
outside sleeve that has lots of snaps to hold it tight. There’s a fleece-lined
hood that can be pulled up and tightened down with a cord that has a
toggle-catch on it, the whole of the upper chest area is lined with fleece, and
the rest of it, quilted inside and with a cord-toggle inside waist belt, is made of
wind-proof nylon with layers of polyester between the layers. The front is
closed with a zipper topped by an overlapping flap that snaps shut. It’s long
enough that when you sit on the cold car seat, it stays under you. I don’t get
cold in it. It’s lovely. I’ve seen nothing that comes close to it here in the
States in decades, or maybe ever.
It was 4 degrees yesterday late morning when I left for the
Upper Valley, which is always warmer than here, "here" being in the midst of the snow belt
in NH. When I got to the Upper Valley, it was a toasty 9 degrees. All I can say
about yesterday is that at least the wind wasn’t still blowing. But by the time
I left yesterday evening, it was only 4 degrees, and snowing. Fill in the rest
of this paragraph with a series of deep, depressing, sighs.
We’re down to the last few days of cordwood, and beginning
the semi-annual argument about whether it’s more sensible to save that small
piece of a cord for emergencies in March, a month that often dumps a surprise
few days or even weeks of heavy snow or freezing rain on us that brings down
power lines and cuts off heat and lights for days; or burn it now because the
alternative is using the furnace and burning more oil, putting us over the
limit of price-guaranteed oil we signed up for in warmer and more hopeful days.
I, the life-long New Hampshirite, say conserve it – the amount of oil we won’t
burn if we use it now is negligible, and it could save us from several freezing
days if we lose electricity, and thus the ability to run the
furnace, in untrustworthy March; the Husband, a city boy from Cincinnati, would rather take a chance – he thinks of
March as a warm month when snow melts, flowers bloom, and we get gentle rains –
and burn it now. I’m right, he’s wrong, but he’s home working during the day
and I’m usually away during the day, so you can imagine how that will play out.
I conceded two days of burning on the last few horribly cold days.
Last Friday night, I got home late – after 10 pm – and was
exhausted but still had computer work I had to do. So I got myself into my
jammies and bathrobe and slippers and hunkered down with the computer. The
Husband was up late for himself, but went to bed at midnight.
Around 2 am I came awake with a start because I’d drifted
off sitting at the computer. Went down cellar to clean out the cats’ poop
boxes, doled out a midnight cat-snack, went into the bathroom to brush my
teeth, and looked out the window to discover a giant fire in the back field on
the edge of the woods. The flames were shooting 6 feet into the air and higher,
and there was a line of them at least 10 feet long. I freaked out – mind racing:
had there been a strange winter lightning strike that I didn’t hear, maybe
mistaking it for snow sliding off the roof? Had some local kids been messing
about in the woods and lost control of a campfire?
What should I do first –
call the fire department, haul the Husband out of bed, find the cats and corral
them someplace they can’t get out of while I get the cars out of the garage
that was uncomfortably too close to the fire, put on clothes and go take a
close look to see how far it extends into the woods first…as I raced around
doing nothing but hyper-ventilating.
Suddenly it occurred to me – that fire was in the spot and
was about the size of the burn pile the Husband had been piling up for two years. He
wouldn’t really start a giant fire
then go to bed without waiting for it to burn down to a safe glow, going out to
check it before bed, and not mentioning it to me, would he? Would he??!! History told me – yes, yes
he would!
I couldn’t figure out why I hadn’t noticed it when I got
home, or while I was sitting at the computer working next to a window that
looks out on the field. But still, I had to take action, and still I wasn’t
sure what to do first – haul the Husband’s sorry ass out of bed, put clothes on
and find ice cleats so I could safely go out and take a look, figure out how to
get a metal shovel out of the iced-and-snowed-in garden shed in case I needed to
shovel snow on the fire to control it, call the fire department, get the cars
out of the too-close garage and head them out towards the road for rapid exit
if necessary, haul the Husband out of bed and kill him…
All this while I was racing around the house cursing loudly
and banging doors and closets and trying to locate the cats and wondering why
my loud cussing wasn’t getting the Husband up. Catman and I went out onto the
back porch to see if the wind was blowing making it very dangerous, or if just
staying up and monitoring it would be sufficient. And repeating to myself, over
and over, “Relax. Relax. Relax.”
OK, there’s a short-handled metal snow shovel meant to be
stashed in a car for digging out of snowbanks in slip-sliding emergencies, I could use that
if necessary. I could kill the Husband in the morning – if I hauled his sorry
ass out of bed at what was now 3 am, he’d have a headache for the next 3 days,
maybe not worth the satisfaction, and I could always haul him out if the wind
changed and stuff became dangerous (deep snow still covers the ground, so
without wind blowing sparks at the
garage or up a tree, the fire wouldn’t go too far). As satisfying as it would
be to call the fire department and let him deal with that fall-out, I should save it for a change in the wind and a
threat about what’s going to happen the next
time he does something so monumentally stupid.
By 5 am, the flames had died back to only about 3 feet high.
I decided it would be safe to lie down on the futon in the room we call the
chapel, which has lots of windows that look out onto the field; I wouldn’t
unfold the futon so I wouldn't get comfortable enough to accidentally fall asleep, but I could rouse myself every 15 minutes to take a good look
at the blaze, and could be out the door in seconds if need be. And I could
spend the time trying to relax all the tight muscles, and memorizing the nasty
things I planned to say to the Husband in the morning. There were a lot of them.
By 7 am I decided it was safe to go to bed. I fell asleep – and
at 8:30 Catman was bouncing around my head yowing for breakfast. By then, the
Husband was up.
“Imagine my surprise,” I started in my most pissed-off
voice, “when I looked out the window at 2 am and discovered a giant fire
burning in the back yard…” I began.
“I know!” the Husband cut me off. “I’d tried to start the
burn pile at 5 yesterday afternoon, and it wouldn’t catch, there was too much
snow on it! At 7 I decided it just wasn’t going to burn, and gave up.”
I glared at him. “And you didn’t think it would be a good
idea to go out and do a close inspection before you went to bed last night – or
at least mention it to me??” I growled. I snarled.
“I looked before I went to bed – there wasn’t a sign of a
flame. I figured there was no reason mention it.”
“Well, now you know better,” I snapped. “I was moments from
calling the fire department!”
I groused and grumbled some more, but pretty much had to
swallow most of what I had to say. I did manage to get the phrase “monumental
stupidity” out before I gave it up. Grrr. Grrr.
No harm, no foul. Except that my stomach was upset all day,
and the next day, I woke up with an incredibly deep, aching, stomach-turning
muscle strain that lasted 3 days - and through 3 acupuncture treatments - which I
assume resulted from tension and lying uncomfortably on that side on the
not-folded-out futon, staring out the windows for hours. The timing was right.
I should have hauled his sorry ass out of bed. The headache
wouldn’t have bothered me as much.
O February! We will not miss you!
For the blog, 28
February 2019
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| Beastrreau; Charley Freiberg photo |
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