PERPETUAL WINTER

We woke this morning to another breath-taking display of hoar frost.  It made me wonder if this was Mother Nature’s way of apologising; a token of appreciation for hanging in there while she tries to fix her furnace.  While I welcome her gesture, and the frost is spectacular against the bright blue sky, I am none-the-less very done with 35 below zero.

As I sipped my first mug of the piping hot, caffeine-laced nectar of the gods that keeps me on an even keel these days I opened the weather app on my phone, steeling my fragile mental state for the inevitable ... sure enough ... no hope for warmer temperatures for as far as the Weather Network is willing to gamble on predictions.  At least two more weeks, but I already knew that.  Other sources have gone out on a limb and forecast this deep freeze to continue well past the middle of March.  I don’t want to believe such things but I think my cup-is-half-full disposition is broken.

I just want to go outside and not have to worry about body parts freezing and falling off.  I want to take the garbage out without having to dress like I’m making for the South Pole.  I want to wash my car without worrying about the doors freezing shut. 

I dream of wandering around my gardens, searching for the first shoots of green to appear.  I long for the warmth of the sun on my shoulders.  I can’t wait to smell the heavenly scent of fresh-turned soil. 

Lord help me, but I’m actually having a hard time to accept that in 2019 March will not be the ‘month of mud’.  I should be celebrating the possibility of a shortened version of the spring melt, but if that means hideous sub-zero temperatures until after St. Patrick’s day I think that’s a price too high to pay.  The old adage “be careful what you wish for” comes to mind.

I’m not the only one disgusted with this perpetual winter; the dog is not amused either.

Well, I guess I should clarify that – he’s not so much disgruntled with the winter, it’s more me he has an issue with.  The winter me.  The me that won’t go outside with him.

The spring, summer and fall me is much more to his liking.  That me goes for walks, or works out in the garden, or at the very least sits out on the deck and keeps him company while he surveys his kingdom. 

The winter me is useless.  I hear his judgement and disdain every time I step up on to my elliptical for a half hour’s worth of fake walking.  He has this groan/moan/disgust noise that comes through loud and clear.  Heck, even if I were deaf I would know from his body language what he thinks of the silliness of walking without going anywhere.  I’ve explained to him several times the advantages he has that I don’t: the husky made-for-the-Arctic fur coat, the fact that he has four feet to keep him stable on icy surfaces whereas I have only two, and that even if he should fall he has a much shorter elevation to fall from.  At the moment I’m older, but he’s catching up fast - you know how that ‘in dog years’ math goes.   He does not worry about broken hips like I do now but there may come a time ...

But there I go, thinking about the future again.  Like there’s going to be one.

Meanwhile ... back at the ranch ... winter goes on.  And on.  And on. 

In a normal year we would be in the middle of a February thaw; the curling surfaces in natural ice rinks would be down to mush by now.  In a normal year there would have been enough sun to leave the rural gravel roads full of ruts.  In a normal year I would need more than two hands to count how many times I’ve been outside since New Years.

I’m even beginning to get a little nostalgic about mosquitoes.