HOUSEBOUND

Okay, this is an apology for the whining I did six weeks ago.  The beginning of February is always a low point in the year for me and I couldn’t help myself.  I succumbed to the dreariness of endless, drab winter days and long, featureless nights.  Menu planning offered no excitement, food preparation lacked lustre, even going to town for groceries seemed more trouble that it was worth.  I ask you: why can’t we be a species who hibernates?  Think of the food bill savings!  And, I would wake up skinny!  Talk about win/win.

At any rate, that was six weeks ago.  Now, here I sit ... inside my house ... listening to the wind howl ... knowing that the roads are absolutely blocked because I barely made it home yesterday before this latest gale blew in ... fondly recalling the quaint days when winter had just arrived at its ‘boring’ stage.  Since then there have been all kinds of positive steps toward spring: we have noticeably gained more daylight, the Tourism committee has managed to find enough faith in spring to believe having a meeting is worth it, and I got a seed catalogue in the mail.  One would think things are looking up, but no, it still feels like winter will never end.

My Facebook memories page  greets me every morning with pictures of the past two years when I was already BBQing suppers on a sunny deck and the snow was down to a few patches scattered around the yard.  This was sending me into serious depression until this morning when the aftermath of the 2017 storm showed up and reminded me how fickle the month of March really is.  It’s given me the will to go on for a day or two more.

I tell myself that life is better now that it’s light out while we eat breakfast and supper.  I tell myself how much cheaper it is on gas when there is no grass to mow.  I tell myself that with all this snow we won’t have to worry about water shortages this year.  I see that the temperature in my greenhouse is plus 18 on the sunny days and I tell myself to go out there and soak up some of that sun.  Myself immediately tells me “Forget that! We dug our way out there in January and you can’t even tell where that trail was!” She’s right of course, the snow is up past the door knob at the back of the house. Myself is a pretty smart gal.

Besides, if I was going to tunnel anywhere it would be out to my clothesline so I could hang socks and face cloths out there.  Nothing else would fit between the snow and the line.

I’ve done all the winter things I usually do – even the tax books are ready to go.  I pretty much follow the pets around with my vacuum cleaner because their way to greet spring is to cover everything in hair.  I’ve even started some cuttings to fill my planters this summer.  It feels wonderful to see the color green in my window.  I’m even psyched to go weeding because at least that means being outside in the sunshine.  Myself tells me that will wear off, she knows me so well.

Heck I’ve even finished round one on a book I’ve been writing.

All I’ve got left is watching TV but these past days I’ve been struggling with that.  The scenes from Ukraine are humbling me, and breaking me, and leaving me sick at heart.  How I wish I could transplant some of those forlorn women and children to my big, rambling farm house. 

As much as I want my winter doldrums to be over, as I do every year, watching this horror unfold shrinks my petty wants and needs to nothing.  Being housebound is suddenly a luxury.