Saturday, January 1, 2005

Snow. Day 3. And on top of it, it's one of those days when the fires won't burn. I think it's to do with the barometer. I've spent two hours huffing and puffing, and shifting and turning the wood, but even the slenderest and pitchiest bits of pine refuse to do more than smolder. I'm cold. My feet are cold. Of course, it would help if I wore shoes. But I hate shoes. Thick woolen socks ought to suffice, if only the tinder would ignite. And soon I'll have to go out and split more wood anyway. Midweek I put by four days' worth, knowing this storm system was on the way, but we're down to splinters today, so like it or not I must swing the maul all afternoon. And this is a good thing, as Martha might say. The hay is dwindling, too. Payday can't come quick enough. The deer have begun sucking up the llamas' leftovers, so we're going through the bales a little more rapidly than we had been. Even though this small life is what this blog is (in theory) "about," it's difficult to rationalize, to motivate yourself, to not feel ridiculous in the face of worldwide disaster, when 150,000 of us disappear like that and under such terrifying circumstances. And now the epidemics have begun... It's a somber New Year's Day here at the Old Same Place. I've taken the shears to my ragged tresses and kept the hair and if the fire will ever get going, I will burn it. I'm sure that's a ritual for improving something. 12:31:34 PM    comment []