![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
WoodDuckDrake of Bluster
Feb. 25th, 2019 10:21 pmWhen we woke up yesterday, the power was out. Even after sunrise, it was hardly light enough to read by daylight, because the clouds were heavy. The power came back on just in time for us to take a shower and get ready for church, where I needed to return some CDs that Dragonfly lent me. I was glad we were there, because one person had just lost his big sister who took care of him when his mother died, another had tried to go on vacation and ended up in the ER with congestive heart failure, and another had just returned after being hospitalized for pulmonary blood clots. At least I got to hug them all and say a few words, which is about all one can do. We also saw some of the DBs and sketched out a get-together next week, and conferred with the committee about a surprise gift for the minister. By the time we left, an icy wind was driving mad flurries of snow across the road. Luckily, we live only about a mile away.
That was the arrival of the so-called bomb cyclone. Not having a trained sled dog team and a walrus-hide parka, I did not attempt going out for a walk. We huddled inside. All night, the wind continued to howl and roar, making the house creak and the trees rattle and lash about. We were so happy that the power stayed on this time. Lucky us. This morning, the wind had died and there was a new icy white crust over the top of the previous snow-heaps. We shoveled again. I put away laundry. I ordered the Bacon Club for Muffinhead and Angelbaby's birthdays. We hope that by associating ourselves with bacon in the young'uns minds, we will leave pleasant memories of Grandmom and Grandad. It seems to be working so far. I wrote a card for the man whose sister died. Fitbit only granted me a few "active minutes" for shoveling, so I got out my yoga mat and improvised step and stepped until I had the full complement.
The forecast for the week ahead is snow showers, snow, cloudy, snow showers, cloudy, snow. And wind chills. Lots of wind chill. I swear, if it doesn't stop snowing soon, I will rip my clothes off and run naked through the streets, screaming. This is a condition called Arctic madness or pibloktoq that may or may not actually exist in Greenlandic Inuit cultures, but certainly does exist in my soul. It would make things interesting next summer, if there is a next summer, when we invite the neighbors for a barbecue. I picture a bit of side-eye, followed by a cautious query--"Will there be . . . more of that, uh, screaming??" No, because in the summer, you just get heat stroke and fall over. It's not as dramatic.
But we have lights and heat, food and coffee, plenty of warm blankets and sweaters, books and music, and companionship. We're okay.
That was the arrival of the so-called bomb cyclone. Not having a trained sled dog team and a walrus-hide parka, I did not attempt going out for a walk. We huddled inside. All night, the wind continued to howl and roar, making the house creak and the trees rattle and lash about. We were so happy that the power stayed on this time. Lucky us. This morning, the wind had died and there was a new icy white crust over the top of the previous snow-heaps. We shoveled again. I put away laundry. I ordered the Bacon Club for Muffinhead and Angelbaby's birthdays. We hope that by associating ourselves with bacon in the young'uns minds, we will leave pleasant memories of Grandmom and Grandad. It seems to be working so far. I wrote a card for the man whose sister died. Fitbit only granted me a few "active minutes" for shoveling, so I got out my yoga mat and improvised step and stepped until I had the full complement.
The forecast for the week ahead is snow showers, snow, cloudy, snow showers, cloudy, snow. And wind chills. Lots of wind chill. I swear, if it doesn't stop snowing soon, I will rip my clothes off and run naked through the streets, screaming. This is a condition called Arctic madness or pibloktoq that may or may not actually exist in Greenlandic Inuit cultures, but certainly does exist in my soul. It would make things interesting next summer, if there is a next summer, when we invite the neighbors for a barbecue. I picture a bit of side-eye, followed by a cautious query--"Will there be . . . more of that, uh, screaming??" No, because in the summer, you just get heat stroke and fall over. It's not as dramatic.
But we have lights and heat, food and coffee, plenty of warm blankets and sweaters, books and music, and companionship. We're okay.
