Never mind the outside temperature.
It brags 12 degrees (-11 C), shame on that thermometer at 4 p.m., Sunday afternoon.
It’s shivered below zero for nights. Winter appears early in the north this year.
Barry just departed the house. “Feels like a heat wave!” he announced (perhaps sarcastically) as he shut the door.
It’s so. Darn. Cold.
We keep feeding the hungry wood stove. One log, two logs. Three logs, four logs. Aren’t you satisfied yet, you greedy creature? Must you munch more and more and MORE?
Must we feed you every hour? Hey, don’t you know it’s only December?
Baby, it’s cold Inside.
Last night Barry’s band played their old rock ‘n roll and country blend over near Ontonagon, a couple of hours west. I sat at home and–what did I do?–watched some romantic comedy on the Kindle Fire–and stoked the fire, hour after long hour, trying to keep the dang house warm.
At 4 a.m. I awoke and lay abed wondering where said bass player might be. The back-up furnace ignited. Darn it, we now burned precious propane. Should I sprint from beneath the cozy covers and stoke the fire? Should I wait for the bass player to arrive home?
At that moment a gunshot-like sound ricocheted through the house. What the heck…? I bolted from bed. Looked for said husband lying prone on the front porch covered with bass guitar.
No, he wasn’t home yet…
What the heck was that noise?
I opted to stoke the wood stove for the hundredth time.
Burrowed beneath the white quilt on the couch and breathed at 4 a.m. Thought about you, and you, and you. (OK, I even checked the Kindle Fire, too.)
Sometimes, on these very cold nights, trees explode in the frigid temperatures. They shoot like guns into the night air, blowing themselves asunder.
Right now, at a relatively warm 12 degrees, I wear a sweatshirt and lined moccasins and listen to the song “Baby, it’s cold Outside.”
Baby, it’s cold inside.
It’s just the way things are in the North Woods.
Are you cold? How do you stay warm, wherever you are?