Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Shirtsleeves one day; turtleneck, jacket, and gloves the next. The morning sun tried hard to peek from behind the curtain of clouds without success. I apologized to each of the milkers when I washed her udder with a cold wipe. Not yet the frigid weather of winter, it was still grey, damp, and chilly and the wind continued to whistle. The woodpile is very much like a bank account; withdrawals should not be made frivolously because it is a finite resource. When it is gone, it is all gone. Back up at the house, with company coming for dinner I rationalized that firing up the wood stove was only right for the comfort of my guests. That's what I told myself, but the truth was that I was cold and that's all there was to it, so I brought in an armload of wood and lit a fire. The first fire of the season is something of an event: will the logs catch, will the chimney draw, will the stove smoke? Once the house gets cold, it takes a long time to warm up. Staying busy with housecleaning and kitchen prep work, it wasn't until I sat down for a break that I realized how warm and cozy the living room had become. With Bess Anne soaking in the heat stretched out in front of the stove, I sent quick thank-yous to the wood cutters and chimney sweep. Dinner was good, the company was great, and, like the baby bear's bed, the house was "just right."