January 17: Slow Day, Slow Month

Today seems to be going on forever.  In a little less than an hour, I have to teach my last class of the week.  Then I have one more dance open house to attend for my daughter.  The first part of the week pretty much flew by for me, but today seems to be on a slow, frame-by-frame advance.  Each task I complete has taken forever, and my tongue keeps worrying my broken tooth.  I'm afraid to even chew hard.  I have this vision of the entire tooth splitting right down the center and falling out in pieces.

To be honest, January has been a very slow month, frozen to a slight trickle, time-wise.  Of course, mid-winter in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan doesn't really encourage the swift passage of time.  Life in the U.P. is basically movement from house to car to destination to car to home.  We shift from one heated environment to another.  This morning, the temperature gauge in my car read -7 degrees Fahrenheit at 4:30 a.m.  I think we're supposed to hit ten degrees for a high this afternoon.  Eventually, this cold snap will end, and our days will return to normal (20- or 30-some degrees above); when we reach 30, people actually walk around outside in tee-shirts and shorts.  It's practically balmy.  I'm not joking.

Writing this post has killed another ten minutes.  It has also made me realize that nothing of any import has happened today.  That's a good thing.  Things of import generally mean past-due bills or broken teeth.  I'll leave the import to Stephen King and 11/22/63, which is a fantastic winter read.  Long and complex, full of the kind of literary fat that makes it perfect for January days and nights.

Saint Marty will take boredom any day.  He'll leave the import to the professionals.

Baby, it's cold outside

September 15: Shovelling Away, Facetious Snowball, Frost on the Pumpkin, New Cartoon

For, the people who were shovelling away on the house-tops were jovial and full of glee; calling out to one another from the parapets, and now and then exchanging a facetious snowball--better-natured missile far than many a wordy jest--laughing heartily if it went right and not less heartily if it went wrong...

Yes, I chose a passage about snow this morning, even though "snow" is really a four-letter word in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan at this time of year.  Every person who lives here knows it's coming, but we don't want to admit it.  In the passage above, people are celebrating, enjoying the white stuff.  Well, it's Christmas day in the book.  You're supposed to enjoy snow around Christmas.  In mid-September, summer isn't quite a distant memory for Yoopers yet.  We're not ready for the eight months of winter ahead.

However, this morning, there was frost on the pumpkin.  Literally.  The one pumpkin that is still clinging to life on my blighted pumpkin plant in the backyard was coated in a white rime.  I don't think it harmed it.  However, it no longer feels like summer to me.  I am dressed in layers today.  Long sleeve shirt underneath a tee shirt.  That's how we do it in the U. P.  If you don't dress in layers, you may be caught off guard by a stray blizzard or ice storm this time of year.  I don't think we have to worry about that eventuality quite yet, but the frost was a good reminder of where we live.

Today, the forecasters are predicting temperatures in the 70-degree range.  That's livable.  Nice, even.  It's when the temps don't get past 50 that I start worrying.  The teenagers are still wearing shorts right now, so I know I'm safe for a few more weeks.  Of course, teens are hearty folk.  They aren't affected by cold as much as their elders.

Saint Marty's furnace kicked in for the first time since May this a.m.  He wanted to lie in front of the vent and bake himself.

Confessions of Saint Marty