The image is only two days old. Last night it snowed twice that much, well over half a foot on the lee side of the rocky hill we call a driveway. Today was mostly sunny and cold, really cold, in the teens until almost noon. (It’s 12 °F as I write, an hour before midnight.) I dug paths to the car and the wood pile, but the tiny frozen grains of snow blew constantly and re-arranged themselves, filling in behind me. And did I mention it was cold?
That kind of cold and wind does something to my body. Reacting to the existential threat? I want to eat and sleep and wake up someplace else, but mostly sleep. This living-on-the-frontier schtick has ruined me for normal life, but I could try it anyway. Imagine being able to go into any room of the house and still be warm! For that matter, imagine a house with rooms. Sometimes I feel superior and worldly, knowing of these things. I’m proud of my survival skills. I can keep a wood stove going all day long. On other days, I’m a two-cylinder idiot.
But it’s cozy in the old adobe. We almost never hear an outside sound. The wood stove keeps the main living area at seventy degrees (21°C). My desk is in the cold room where anxious mail and documents go to die. I walk around barefoot and pretend to work. The kitchen is five steps away, the sofa two. I’ve been in trouble for so long, this looks like paradise. For all I know, it is.