Bed Socks & Bottles

It was bitter last night. That's how my father would describe a cold day in Cork when it hovered around 1 degree Celsius. Last night here? It was -5C but that "RealFeels" sticker, because of the high winds, had it at -17C.

Electricity costs a fortune here so alternative energy supplementation ranges from propane to wood. I have wood in conjunction with electricity in the upper reaches of the house. To use electricity exclusively would see me in the poorhouse or not eating. Ever. The plight of many senior women living on their own doing an eke. My ongoing gig as writing instructor sees the fees I collect weekly from that paying for another load of wood next week. Local economy at its finest. Black economy too. It has to be. The guy who is presently lumbering my wood and is cutting and cleaving it, was laid off from his iron ore job in Labrador and is eking too. He had to return here, at the age of 50, to live with his mother and subsist on a union pittance when his EI ran out.

When one gets cash out here on the Edge, it is socked away and never sees a bank. We all do it. Chatting with a banker in town, I discovered that he does it too - on the QT. Collect cash for banking advice on the side, disburse cash to handyman for new bathroom. We all live under the table to a huge degree. And none of us live extravagantly. I hated myself when I had to go to online Walmart for free shopping deliveries but I had no choice. Funny how we can preach for years but when the wallet is thinned right out we have to bow at the altar of the corporate enemy. But I do shop local too. I love my wee local grocery store.

But to these elder arms, nothing beats coffee and dog-food and flour and sugar and paper products in bulk delivered free right to my door.

Which brings me back to the title of the post.

My mother would send me off to bed on cold nights or with a tough period, warm, with a hot water bottle, especially knitted bed socks and a crocheted bed jacket when I was a teenager.

So last night? Under the duvet, I reverted to these comforting items.

Toasty, warm and safe from the howling blizzard outside.

When many aren't.

Wait Five Minutes

A common Newfoundland phrase is:

"If you don't like the weather wait five minutes."

I've known it to be true.

But there's such a thing as 'shrug true' and 'gobsmackingly true'.

Like today. I was in St. John's for the day and I usually plan my time there, not OCD-ish or anything, but I have a rough idea when I'm having dinner with or without friends, time allocated for the weekly grocery shop, and I allow for a good long walk with Ansa. Today I chose the university campus. We like this walk as many far-from-home students rush over and go ballistic over Ansa. She laps up the attention for a while and then gets bored with the fans and heads for the pee-mail all around her.

It was a stunning day. St. John's gets Denim Days too. Not a cloud in the sky so I debated the vest and the gloves and decided to take them but shook my head at the cap and the coat. I mean I would look seriously ridiculous on such a balmy day.

We were about 20 minutes out on the walk at a goodly pace when snow begins to make itself felt. I smiled, thinking it a fleeting weather aberration. I looked up at the darkening sky as the wind picked up. Sweet maria on a pogo stick, I kid you not, the heavens opened up, the wind roared and we now had a full blown blizzard on our hands. Blizzard. One of those horizontal ones. The ice got into places on my body that had never been exposed to the light of day. Or night. Ever. I had no cell phone and no money on me. Head down, I aimed for the car in these arctic conditions. I was covered in snow and ice, soaked and chilled to the bone. Ansa is part husky so there were many potential romps this spoilsport had to drag her away from along the way. Snow! Bounce! Joy!

I finally, finally struggled into the car and blasted the heat. And then, you know what happened next? You do. The dark oppressive clouds raced away out over the ocean and the sun split the rocks yet again, dazzling me so much I had to put on the shades. And all that snow melted. In rivers running everywhere.

I was meeting some friends at 7 and I was a sorry sight, jeans dripping, my sleeves had to be literally rung out. And they all laughed. Not at the news of the blizzard, but that I hadn't prepared for all eventualities of weather as I set out. As they do. Like true Newfoundlanders.

I will be telling this weather story for years.

Hunkering

Can you believe the way the snow crept up my window? Photo taken this a.m.

The thing about storms and hunkering is that regular hours can be thrown for a loop. I couldn't sleep last night, the howling of the wind and those odd creaky things in an old house that come blaringly to life in a storm has thrown my night into day, day into night.

The 3.00 a.m. horror show also appeared - you know how that goes, don't you? Every thought you've had since you were two comes to life. First day of school is there, then a brand new film for me: beloved grandfather dying, mama weeping for what seemed like months afterwards. And no, you can't go to the funeral, we want you to remember him the way he was which always led me to the belief it was a huge big scam and Granddad had run off somewhere never to be seen again. So that film played for a couple of hours inevitably leading to the deaths of other beloveds and maybe it was my turn tonight, and the what about the dog? thought, this time left with my corpse? Would she howl? Eat me? Great, enough of that now.

I could go on and on about the stark raving horrors of the three ayems. I wrote a poem about it one time. And I salute the almighty power of the search engine for locating it:

In the three ayem darkness
To a mind run amok.
In the afternoon rainstorm
To depression unstuck.

In the loan of a shoulder,
To the lean of a hold,
In the ear of attention
To the warmth from the cold.

In the years gone behind us,
To the old you and me,
In the comfort we offer
To the days yet to be.

Written in 2002. I was young then. Well, old then. Well, much older now. In that way of passing sixty at high speed.

It is still windy out and drizzling. Cabin fever hasn't set in yet. I truly love being isolated in times such as these.

It sets the mind to dreaming without interruption.