Aw, for cryin' out loud...

Snow? Really? On tax day??? We've all had quite enough, thank you very much. Everywhere I went, people wore sour expressions with narrowed eyes. The neighbors even went so far as to stage an impromptu protest. Of course, they quickly became distracted by some new, chilled grass niblets... (See photo.)

There's something so wrong about admiring a blooming magnolia tree through a veil of icy flakes. SO wrong.

Alas. It is what it is. I guess I'll give up, put on some socks, and hold my kvetchin' tongue.

Less is best

I think I'm finally feeling almost normal today. Christmas holiday, New Year's, extended vacations for my son and my husband, then a ridiculous cold front that caused more unplanned time off—all that mayhem has meant no time for me to enjoy the silence and build up my introvert reserves. Even today was tarnished by yet another school delay. I love my son, but when we can't even step outside for fear of frostbite...? Enough.

At this moment, at last, I am flourishing in stillness. The swish of the washing machine in the basement is the only sound to accompany my tapping on the keyboard. Blissful. Soon, the symphony of rushing heat from the vent will start again, offering a variety in my minimal auditory stimulation. Perhaps I'll turn on some music in a little while, but not yet. Not yet.

I visited Macy's recently (an item to return, an unused gift card—these are the things that are required to get me into the mall). I stood in that vast space dedicated to consumer culture, and I gaped at the innumerable items around me. Modern, classic, work-out, work-wear, young and hip, old and proven. And that was just the petite section of women's clothing. Are you kidding me? How's a person supposed to choose from such a plethora of options? I don't have the energy to narrow down the categories. At least, I don't want to expend my precious energy doing something so pointless for very long. I know I've written about this before, the ludicrously large number of choices we have when purchasing anything, and I'm still wound up about it. More and more, I love thrift stores. Now I can add this reason to the list: fewer choices to have to make. Limited options simplify my life; too much of anything is not pleasing.

I can carry that argument back into the Christmas season, which finally limped out the door while I kicked it and hollered with glee. I love Jesus, yet I despise a lot of Christmas. And you know why? Because there is too much of everything. Think about it. Too many parties, too many dinners, too many cookies, too many responsibilities and gifts to buy and people to remember and time off and even too much red wine. Excessive revelry, even excessive fellowship, makes me antsy and short of breath, eager only to retreat.

So, I grasp with new depth why I steer clear of Macy's and places like it, and why I sing joyfully to myself as I take down the Christmas decorations. It's not just a new year, or even a new start that lightens my heart.

It's the promise of LESS.

Still here

January is flowing by uneventfully. In addition to a short week because of MLK day, the intense cold has caused school delays the past two mornings, so we're feeling rather topsy-turvy now because of the toyed-with schedule. Tomorrow morning will be the first real "early" morning, and I suspect it's going to be challenging...

But already, next week is the last week of January 2013. We've slogged just over one month through the dreaded winter. The second nine-week period is ending, most folks have actually taken down their Christmas lights and tree by now, and I recently experienced a stab of horror, for the first but not last time, when I remembered the 2012 taxes (we've started to receive the stubs from employers and charities and such). Ugh.

There's not much else to report, really—just typical January benchmarks: Sweaters, dry skin, parched throats, increasingly unwilling cars, static electricity, ludicrous heating bills, boots and tracked-in salt littering every entryway, looming tax suffering from last year, new tax suffering for this year as we watch the cash being stripped away from us... Not a superbly cheery time of year.

But one third of the way through! Already! I cling to that truth, as I rise in the semi-dark chill, seeking hot coffee and warm slippers. One third is a significant fraction. We can do this. We must do this.

Zoom, zoom

Coming out of the Christmas holiday is sort of like the last third of an amusement park coaster ride. The speed and spin factors become almost unbearable, you can see the finish line if you dare to open your eyes, and you feel increasingly ill.

Then it's done, you're coasting to a stop, and at once the simultaneous relief and letdown flood your every pore. (On a side, note, my post-holiday nausea probably isn't caused by motion sickness, but instead by a horrifyingly out-of-control consumption of cookies...)

As usual, I'm feeling much more relief than any other emotion. Christmas has pretty much lost most of its association with Christ, from what I see; mostly, it feels like a giant buy-a-thon these days. Not to mention that it's feeling rather brutal of late, what with pepper-sprayed shoppers and gun-toting, sneaker-buying thugs getting all the news coverage. This is why I shop second-hand, people—most shoppers can't afford weapons or self-defense sprays at the Goodwill.

So, honestly, I'm glad it's all over. Now comes the season of steeling oneself for the survival of long, cold, winter months. But already the days are getting a tiny bit longer, aren't they? We can cling to that, even while knit scarves and hats cling to our hair and throats as we try to endure the misery.

Happily, I am once again amazed and touched at the generosity of friends and family around us. We are really blessed, in so many ways. I guess that if I were to make a resolution, it would be to cultivate a genuine attitude of gratitude. A grateful heart really does change a person's perspective.

I found some great little Mary Engelbreit cards on clearance at the craft store, and one of them spoke to me: "If you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it, change the way you think about it!"

That will be my goal. Because, truly, I feel like time is slipping away faster than I can mark it. Alongside the relief of holidays safely past, crouching unobtrusively next to my snow boots, is the quiet, sobering realization that I don't have nearly as much time as I thought I did.

Signs of things to come?

Lucky me—I've managed to pick up a horrible head cold, the first of the season. Thus far, my other two housemates have remained uninfected. I keep coughing in their general direction, which is my kind way of warning them to wash hands often with soap. We'll see if they listen, or also fall ill.

The worst thing about being sick is that I have no energy. None. Every part of my body feels heavier than normal, held down by invisible bands that make movement difficult and painful. Joints throb, extremities ache, my brain is dull and thick. That's the telltale symptom of sickness for me, the absolute drained feeling that causes me to sit stupidly or (worse yet) to lie senselessly on whatever flat surface is available. When I don't want to do anything, and I'm content to just sit, then I know for certain that I'm ill. Otherwise, I'd be in motion. I'm much happier in motion. It's part of the reason I shun television; I'm not even the reader I used to be, because it requires being somewhat still. (Yes, I know, I could get a Kindle and read while I run on a treadmill... Please. I want to enjoy the reading experience.)

Anyway, the whole sick thing makes me wonder if this is sort of how I'll feel when I'm old, Lord willin' and the creek don't rise. Will going up stairs take more effort than it's worth exerting? Will I have the strength to rise from my bed, or will I have to try more than once before I succeed? Will my brain feel addled and confused, like a maze of dead ends that don't lead to the right answer? Will my limbs feel constrained and leaden?

It's a valid question, I think, yet one that I don't want to consider for long. It's frightening to me, quite frankly, and I don't like to think about things that frighten me. I might be around for a long, long time, and I can already detect activities that aren't as easy for me as they used to be, memories that don't come as quickly, motions that used to be silent and now elicit an "Mmmph" sound.

The whole "is this what I'll feel like if I get to be an old woman" concern is just one more reason to hate being under the weather. Especially on a sunny day, with blue skies and warm-ish breezes. Those breezes aren't nearly as sweet when your nose takes up your whole face and the only thing you long for is a Vicks-scented tissue.

Okay, enough self-pity. Onward. I'll just carry some laundry upstairs now; I think I can break through the unseen barriers on the steps, the ones that press down on me while I'm trying to climb. I can do it. Deep breath (through my mouth). Here goes.

Without warning, winter

OK, tell the truth, now—was I the only one who woke up yesterday, looked out the window, and muttered, "What the—?!"

That was really pretty unfair of nature, to throw that at us after the three-plus inches of rain we'd received in the previous 24 hours.

It's funny how we all react to the first snowfall to actually stick. I know that even as I bit back the rest of the phrase above, I felt a little thrill in my chest. Now, I had an adversary again. I had a reason to allow some extra minutes—for starting cars, or walking in mincing fashion on what might be slippery slopes, or driving among throngs of panicked people who'd been forced by circumstances to climb behind the wheel that day. I had to consider, beyond comfort, which shoes to choose that day.

There's a briskness about, not just in the air when it snows at first, but in the manner of folks around this area. Suddenly, we all grasp in very concrete fashion that we Western Pennsylvanians must unite once again to withstand this foe; we must embrace our shared spirit of survival. We need to start checking on people again, just as we did when it was 90 degrees, but for entirely different reasons. We need to find the gloves and mittens, extract the scarves and toboggans from their out-of-sight, out-of-mind locations. We need to keep more gas in the tank, and a blanket in the trunk.

Shovels and salt will be unearthed once more. Spare kerosene (or fire wood) and toilet paper will take up more space than they have of late. Bed times might move back a tad (they will at our house, anyway). The Crock Pot will make more frequent appearances, and I'll spend many minutes each day organizing piles of boots that drip icy, dirty water (hopefully into the proper repository, the boot tray).

Here we go again: Suit up and stand firm, friends.

Nuances of phlegm expulsion

So, it's the sickly season and then some. H1N1 is striking with germy venom, regular run-of-the-mill colds and viruses are leaping onto new hosts with glee, and the air around is generally so contaminated that one is afraid to take a breath. And don't scratch that tickle below your brow, for goodness' sake—the urge to rub your eye will be far too strong. (Although I'm still not certain whether viruses can enter through the eye, I consider it to be an orifice of sorts, albeit plugged with your eyeball, and I'm not taking any chances.)

But the ill surroundings have made me aware of an uncanny ability most of us have by the time we're adults: we can read a cough. Sometimes we can read it superbly. I sat in church today, and a baby coughed behind me. How did I know it was a baby? I don't know, exactly, but I did; I even suspected it to be a female baby. Then I turned later to confirm it, and sure enough, the cough was coming from a tiny child, about 6 or 8 months old. A little girl with pink Mary Janes. What made her small cough different from others? The timbre was too high to be an adult's, and the little noise she made didn't sound as if it had traveled very far on its way out. I don't know how else to describe it, but I think you'll know what I mean.

Church is a good place to test this theory, because it's a rather quiet space and there's a large sampling of humanity from which to draw data. I remember a few years ago that Todd and I both noticed the same insistent, seemingly endless cough that we heard week after week. We both knew it was a woman before we'd located the back of her head, and we both noted that the cough was a rather wet sound, indicative of something chronic. Lo and behold, we met her last year—a lovely, charming miss who happens to have cystic fibrosis.

Think about it: can't you usually guess correctly the approximate age of the cougher? Often, even in children, the sex of the coughing victim? Can you not often predict whether a cough will be accompanied by a nasty, snotty nose or watery eyes? Sometimes you can even tell how many days or weeks the person has been coughing, because those lingering, dry coughs of the late-stage head cold are so easily identified. It's quite amazing, really, the amount of overwhelmingly accurate information you can garner from merely listening to someone as they attempt to clear their lungs or stop a squirrelly bronchial spasm in its tracks.

I really did hear the message today, too—I wasn't just listening to sickies and trying not to breathe. But one can't help noticing.

Frosty ennui

The view out the east-facing windows early was spectacular this morning: White snow, dimly illuminated homes with remnants of heat escaping from chimneys, and behind it all a glowing rosy line of sky at the horizon.

It almost made up for last night's ridiculously frigid temperature. Almost.

Boy, do we have a raging case of cabin fever at our house. I daydream of toasty sunshine, balmy breezes, and bare toes several times daily. I am sustained only by the passing of weeks on the calendar, by the knowledge that each day increases by a minute or so in duration, by the promise of change (in the weather--NOT in the White House. Puh-LEEEZ). It's hard to find inspiration to write much of value these days. I have no trouble kvetching about the weather, but Lord knows that's not going to change anything outside, now is it?

Please excuse me—I need to step into my mind for a moment now.

Last gasp

It’s about this time of year that panic blooms in my heart: what? What day is it? It’s SEPTEMBER?! The pools are closed already? I should have gone swimming more! How can it be so late? Why didn’t I drink more iced tea? And sun tea!? I never made sun tea, not once all summer! And we still have green tomatoes! How did this happen???

I felt a hint of panic earlier in the week, when I was forced to turn the page on the calendar. But the panic intensified on Wednesday, when I awoke with a weird feeling in my throat; the rest is history. Apparently, cold season has begun early in our house. Each time I hack and wheeze until my chest is raw and my eyes are weeping, I am cruelly reminded that not only is my favorite season coming to an end soon, but also the horrific sickly season is nearly upon us.

You all can have your crisp autumnal days, your brisk nights, your lovely leaves floating down with every stir of the breeze. I prefer summer. I prefer sandals to boots, and tank tops to electrified sweaters. I want to leave the house with only a cold drink in hand, to pack a windbreaker for my little boy knowing he won’t need it. I want to sip coffee outside in the early morning of another splendid balmy day—no heavy robe needed, no slippers thank you very much, my bare feet are just fine.

I want to travel light. I want to see green. I want uncomplicated errands, meals outside, and dew instead of frost. I want to be warm all the time, not just when I’m wrapped in blankets in front of the heater.

The only good thing about all this? Once I stop coughing, I can start planning what I’ll bake. Cold weather is good for that, at least.

Reality setting in

I gaze in disbelief at the yard behind my house; can it be the same welcoming spot where the kid and I played just months ago? Is that his little plastic cottage, sitting forlorn by the fence? It seems a separate world now, an uninviting and muddy spot where snow and dead grass intermingle like grim, grumpy colleagues.

I cannot believe that we ever sat at that cold, sodden picnic table and ate sunny meals. Nor can I fathom that the same patio is, indeed, attached to our home. My wonderful covered patio, where so many hours were passed drinking cold drinks, eating grilled food, and watching the boy splash, play with cars, sketch with sidewalk chalk. Now the concrete slab sits, chilly, barren, stony. Its cushion-less seats are piled high atop the old metal glider in storage mode; they create an awkward tower commemorating summer and its glistening joys—joys now lost in frigid breezes.

It can’t be the same place. Somehow, in some inexplicable way, our home has been transported to a cruel and unforgiving climate, a place where all that was green is brown, and even sunshine passes through a warmth-sucking filter.

I have a friend who moved to Phoenix. When she did, I quietly questioned her sanity. Now, I ponder her decision with some envy. Dry, sunny world, with deserts and cacti: you are calling to me, enticing me in a way that frozen puddles never will.

Just touching base

Well, we've lost another older member of our family...so, the next couple of days will be busy with family commitments. Please forgive my absence while I try to think of something intelligent and insightful to share with you next time.

On a completely different level, we finished painting the foundation of the house a lovely warm ivy green. It really looks nice with the tan brick. I'll post a couple of pics next time. It was a rather arduous process, but well worth the effort.

And, Marcus has managed to catch another cold. : (