The End of Another Day

 I offer you a few views out the back window, as the sun was setting this evening. Because I can.

Click photo to embiggen.

Approximately 16:30 hrs (Central time)

Roughly 16:45 hrs 

Right at 17:00 hrs.

How cold is it? Fffffff...

Let's call it "right nippy." And I have to go out in it again, tonight. 'Salright, though. The car only has to travel five minutes at most. I could probably walk it faster than I can warm it up to clear the windshield. Hmm. That may be the plan, tonight.

Captain coordination strikes again!

Sure, they give us winter storm warnings, and all that, but what do those alerts really mean?

They mean sprained ankles, bruised Achilles tendons and glutei maximi (just missed the kidney), strained wrists, and swollen, purple, and otherwise exceptionally unsightly toes. They mean sitting funny, with my foot elevated, for the next three days or so, and holding the keyboard in my lap, instead of letting it rest in a sensible, reasonable position on the surface of the desk.

They also mean a big, blue cloud above my parents' front steps. I had forgotten I knew how to use such language, until my feet refused to establish themselves correctly on my way home, last night. I found my way down the six stairs, having taken only one step.

The weather here wasn't really so nasty -- just slushy rain. But underneath it all was just the faintest trace of ice, undetectable unless you stepped just right. And step just right I did. I taught the kittehs of Momsporchistan a whole new language last evening, while, as if in slow motion, I made my way from vertical to diagonal.

Having a nonfunctional refrigerator at home, hence no ice cubes, I decided to let nature apply its own ice pack to it, so I drove out to the city park, stuck my already soggy foot into a slush puddle, and reduced the swelling while increasing the swearing. When, at last, I was ready, I made my way home to a warm bath and large bottle of aspirin... and cats, who seem to think that walking on sore spots will make them feel better. I suppose having Maus dance on my shoulder works to ease the muscle problems I have there, but I don't recommend catspaw massage on fresh bruises. They just make the air bluer.


Oh -- and Maus likes to do a spectacular zigzag entry onto my bed, springing off the chair and landing on the edge of the bed... where my "good" foot was resting nekkid, last evening as I tried to ease myself around and onto the pillows. Her claw caught my second toe and drew profuse blood. So, I was stuck trying to find a comfortable position in which to sit (not on or against any fresh injuries) so that I could clean the wound and apply a bandage.

Poor Maus sat across the room on a stack of books, startled by the foot which got in her way. It took some serious persuading to get her to come over and massage my shoulder. No claws, this time.

Of course, this morning, my foot wouldn't fit inside my winter boot, or into any but the flimsiest of shoes. And the forecast is for upwards of 6 inches of snow.

Believe me or your lying, frost-sealed eyes?

So, this morning when I got out of bed, I was greeted by frost on my windowpanes, as usual. It is, after all, January in west-central Illinois. Not only was there frost on the window, though, there was this frost on the strike plate to my front door

Mind you, that's an interior shot, and the exterior is protected by a storm door. Those little spots of white near the center of the shot were hardened clumps of effing cold. It was (according to the television station only 50 miles away) subzero... at the time I was putting on my coat to go out and start the car, the weatherman said it was minus 15, with wind chills dragging it down to minus 35 or so. They had issued this warning on their website in the wee hours: Bitter cold temperatures create dangerous conditions.

Today's local rag, however, tells us a different story (from the print edition):

I'll believe it when I can pry my frosted eyelids apart and see it for myself.

Let it snow, let it snow... somewhere else!

For the record, my least favorite job in the whole wide house has always been washing the dishes. I would rather clean the litter box -- clean the entire bathroom of a subway station, for that matter -- than wash a bunch of dirty pots, pans, plates and spoons.

But now, I have a new least fave. Shoveling snow.

I'm house-sitting. I'm also pet-sitting and therefore also doing repeated security checks on two other houses. And then, there's my own house.

So, the day before yesterday (or, perhaps it was the day before that) we had a nice little four-inch snowfall. On the plus side, I wasn't yet caring for the other two households of critters, so I didn't have to go out to shovel their walks. Yet.

This afternoon, though, the forecast inundation arrived. I took an hourlong nap instead of washing dishes, and, when I woke up, the dishes were still there, and the front sidewalk was missing. There was a ski slope where the steps used to lead to the porch. The car I drive was four inches taller and white, instead of cherry red (well, instead of grimy, rusty, spotty cherry red, really).

I decided to do the dishes.

I had somewhere to be, though -- a birthday party for an extended family member -- so, eventually I had to dig myself out. To make matters worse, my parents (whose house I am occupying while they are away) will be arriving back home (to quote Mom from her phone call) early tomorrow morning. For me, early is before the crack of noon. Early for the old bat and the geezer is... ummm.... I think they actually sometimes see the sun rising. Ewww.

So, anyway, rather than leave the snows on the driveway for a couple of extra days, I cleared the bulk of it away from the slope, so they will be able to unload all their gear when they arrive.

Then I went to the birthday party.

After the party (it was now 8:30 p.m) I made my way (a little later than I like) to check in on Eddie Puss, see that he had plenty of water, clean litter box, fresh kibble, and at least a half hour of cuddle time. While he ate, I shoveled his mommy's walk. I was not the warmest lap he's ever experienced, when he finished eating. He stayed there long enough to let me know it was a valiant effort, but not worthy of a passing grade.

Sigh.

Clean snow off car again. Drive car up hill, fish-tailing all the way out of the drive. Stop at the end of block-long drive, park car in drift, walk garbage can and recycling bin back to house. Walk to car. Wipe snow off all car windows again. Drive to home of Rizzo (a Boston Terrier), Stretch (ancient Siamese kitteh), and Dolce (middle-aged fluffball kitteh).

Kindly neighbor has taken a snow-blower to the main walkway all the way to the corner. I'm left groping around in a dark carport for the shovel, so I can do the porch and the walkway from porch to main sidewalk. Rizzo is barking from within.

Sidewalk cleared.

Litter boxes cleaned. Stretch gets his meds (ever try giving pills to a cat not your own? Ever try feeding Brussels sprouts to an ordinary two-year-old? The latter is easier). All get food. Rizzo gets a walk to the corner and back, and he resents the duration of time in the chill. I play a little "fetch" with him, cuddle Dolce, and console Stretch. I lock up, go out, brush snow off car.

My house. I'm not sleeping there, but I don't want to advertise that fact. Sidewalk is missing. Shovel is way the aytch at the end of the porch. Drifts of snow are deeper than my boots are high. Air is turning blue near my mouth, and not from the eerie blue tint one's lips get from too much of the chill.

Fetch shovel. Clear sidewalk and porch. Fetch mail (three days' advertising fliers, all delivered in a bunch, today, along with what appears to be an insurance statement, but I haven't opened it yet, a'cuz I ain't inclined to worry about it until after mañana). Ah, holidays! Stuff bulk mail in trash can, stuff important thing in pocket.

Back to the old folks' home. Dagnabbit, where did that sidewalk & driveway go? And, wasn't there a staircase to the porch, when I went out?

I think tonight I might be dreaming of moving to someplace mild, like Panama, or Venus.

A funny thing happened

On my way through impersonal corporate rejection, I was actually recognized by face and name, by an insurance agent I see maybe twice a year... and what's more, he was able to help me.

It all started out with a windstorm... the pictures of the pickup truck with the tree resting oh-so-gently upon it are from directly in front of my house. But that wasn't the only tree branch damage. In my back yard, I had a rather substantial shade tree, as well. I'm told it was a slippery elm, but I don't know trees except deciduous and evergreen. This one was deciduous (other trees drop leaves in the fall -- mine drop large branches), and about 45-50 feet tall, with a crotch about 7 feet off the ground starting to split (I've heard of split-crotch panties, but probably not in this size), and with a smaller tree trying to take root in the divide. At any rate, while this large tree in the back had not, as yet, split asunder and landed upon my garage, the neighbors' garages, and the neighbor's house, it was only a matter of time.

As a matter of fact, it decided, during this summer's storm, to drop a 16-inch diameter major branch onto my garage roof -- my pretty corrugated fiberglass garage roof, which Pop just finished three summers ago! I called the insurance office (State Farm) and asked if there were any point to filing a claim -- would somebody like to come look at it and give me a reasonable assessment, or was that a stupid thing to do? Mostly, I was trying to keep Pop from doing himself grievous bodily harm in the few days before his 50th-anniversary-gift trip with Mom to Alaska. If left to his own devices, he'd have climbed up ladders, tossed a couple of ropes about, and wrenched his back trying to remove the giant tree limb from the garage roof. Then where would his trip have gone? No train, no ferry, no Alaska -- just to bed and Grumbleburg!

At any rate, the insurance company sent an adjuster out, filed a claim for me to the tune of $33 above my deductible. Apparently, just phoning them constitutes filing a claim (I did not know this -- I thought one could ask without committing to an actual claim. Isn't that what some company's ads say you can do?) A few weeks later, I got a check in the mail for $33. Whoopee.

Next thing I know, though, I'm getting a letter informing me that, because I've had three claims in six years, they're canceling my policy, as of the first of the year. Over a $33 check! (exclamation point!!!!)

So right before Thanksgiving (a few days after having received the notice), Mom and I (Mom and Pop are part-owners of my house) went down to the agent's office, and asked if we could get a little help. The assistants said the boss, Jon Ferguson, was out sick, then took our names & number, said she'd have him call us when he got back to work.

Well, a month went by. We didn't see Ferguson's name in the obits, so we went by his office again last week, assuming that our note simply got lost in the stacks of messages (it's been a busy year around here). He was in... and mostly recovered. We told him of my plight, he called the main office in Bloomington, IL, and managed to get a reversal of the decision to cancel -- and he even had my payments reduced, with a little restructuring. He said to the person on the phone, after all, our family had been steady customers of his since we returned to this community, and had been with State Farm since... I dunno, since time immemorial, I guess, and it seemed sorta problematic to lose a customer over a $33 check, anyway (that should have never been submitted as a claim, said he, and should be considered an "office error"), especially since the offending trees have now been removed at chainsaw-point, so there's no further risk of tree damage to the house or garage (unless one of the neighbor's trees gets picked up and blown over one of their houses and into mine). He drove over by my house, took a photo or two to e-mail to the main office, as evidence of tree absence.

I received a "disregard previous letter" letter yesterday, in my mailbox.

I genuinely appreciate doing business with Jon Ferguson -- he's what an insurance agent ought to be: friendly, professional, swift and helpful. He treated Mom and me as human beings, and kept me from getting lost in the big, bad system.

And I love living in a small town, where people know each other and actually care!

(BTW -- a friend of mine has been doing the basic emergency repairs. The down side to living here is, we have so few reliable contractors available to do "small jobs." Many of us have had to learn to do our own simple tasks, like roofing, plumbing, wiring, and such, or depend upon the kindness of neighbors.)

Ice, ice baby

Well, now, the forecast was accurate, once more. We're in the midst of an ice storm -- freezing rain makes the streets downright deadly. I walked over from my house to here (the folks' place) this morning, and it took me roughly ten minutes to traverse the distance... slightly more than 200 meters. I was gently placing my foot down on crunchy grass surfaces wherever I could, and learning to skate across paved surfaces.

So, once more, we need to concern ourselves with the possibility that the power lines may be brought down by ice and wind. whee.

Funny thing, though... I like this weather. As long as I don't have to drive anywhere, it's pretty neat. The trees always look so awesome when the light bounces off their glazed branches, and, except for the risk of hypothermia, it's not so bad to go sliding around town, once in a while.

Who'd 'a' thunk I would turn into some sort of glass-half-full type, on a cold Saturday morning?

It snoweth!

Winter is icumen in... the first traces of snow began to drift past the window about a half hour ago. It's stopped, right now, but the forecast promises us an inch or so, overnight. That ought to make the highways lots of fun, for those who have to travel over the river and through the woods.

Drive carefully, if you're on the roads of northern Illinois. We want to see you stuffing your faces at the dinner table, not gluing those faces together at the hospital.


And, while you're around here, thinking of seasons and Thanksgiving, my column has been posted at its usual location, Friday's Klips. Enjoy.

Soggy parade (part deux)

So, the rains came in earnest, and the folks in the parade were real troupers

Sticking it out, hoping for the next break in the rains to be the one long enough for everybody to finish the show...

Even IL State Representative Rich Myers bore with it in fairly good humor...

But I'm betting these kids wished their church had built an ark, instead of this float.

Still, my favorite part of any parade in town is

always going to be the Highlanders...

er, rather...

the Monmouth College Pipe Band (I don't know if I can adapt to all the changes since my antediluvian terms of scholarship).

At least the WCPBF Princess court had appropriate transportation:

and Jane Lovdahl handled the moisture with considerable grace

But I'm not so sure about the rest... they had bumbershoots, the cheaters! ;-)

Harding Elementary School, I think, was tossing out mardi gras beads from the back of a soaking wet truck bed...

And the IL home Extension groups were pretty soggy, as well...

As was the 4-H float.

But the crowds, and the participants, seemed to thin out as the rains became progressively heavier.

I stayed long enough to see the Monmouth College Marching Band finally stomp through... Nice to see they no longer have to march in their jammies.

Not the most flattering, but perhaps the more appropriate "majorette" uniforms...

These guys really rock, for a group still new to the college. The music department should be proud.

And with the arrival of these twirlers came the heaviest of the rains.

I was sopping wet, and I was afraid my camera -- not designed for immersion -- would give up the ghost if I let it stay out in the worst of it, so I went home. I hope I was one of a very few... but the pouring rains didn't stop until 6:00, a full hour after they started.

Some day, I will invest in a rain suit, maybe one like the Gorton's Fisherman wears. For the camera. Me, I like getting soaked to the skin. Even on parade day.

Friday's Klips: After the storm

My column is posted at the usual place. We're still picking up the pieces from after the... interesting weather we had last week, so now's your chance to pop in and hear how things are going (links included).

A few updates on the storm

Update on the update: I've added a couple of pics.

For those who watch the weather, last night and this morning, we were that funny little pinkish-white dot in the middle of all that green, yellow, red, purple, etc. over the Mississippi Valley. I don't know how much rain we got between 12:50 p.m. yesterday and so far today, because Pop's 7-inch rain gauge was topped out. Whatever it was, it was flash flood stuff.

I'm not building an ark, yet, though, even though I've gathered ma wee beasties over here at the folks' place. The city's drainage system, installed over the past decade or so, appears to have worked very well. The streets flooded temporarily, and there were the rare blocked drains, but overall, the only real damage to Monmouth was from the wind bringing down trees. And power lines... and poles.


(The police officer who sent in the report on the tree in front of my house said they were answering a lot of calls about "smelling gas", and a number of meters had been detached from pipes by falling tree limbs, but otherwise, there had, by 3:00 yesterday, still been no reports in town of serious injury or massive flooding).

Meanwhile, Kirkwood, just a few miles to the west of us, is closed to all but the lawful residents. 20 homes were completely destroyed, over 200 homes were damaged, and they'll be digging out for a very long while. I'm thinking my friend Anna and her husband are going to be very glad they sold their Kirkwood house and moved south two weeks ago....

It's still chaos out here -- In Monmouth, most of the houses and businesses have electricity again, but they're sawing away branches, trees, and other scrap. A couple of lighter buildings and garages have gone belly-up, and folks are still a little nervous.

In Galesburg, things are a little worse than in Monmouth. There's been one storm-caused death confirmed already, and a number of injuries reported at the hospitals. A lot of property is damaged, power is still out for multiple pockets of houses, and it will be a while before the streets are cleared there.

We all had been hit hard economically a couple of years ago when the bulk of Galesburg's major industries left town (following the Maytag cut-and-run), but it looks as though we'll be able to pull through. Kirkwood is a tight-knit community, with lots of relatives in the region, so we're all pulling together to the best of our abilities.



Meanwhile, my neighbor whose truck was crunched is filing a claim against my homeowner's insurance company... We have one angry mother and a couple of stunned men...

And it's raining again (just a sprinkle!).



This corn field doesn't look so bad, if you don't know what you're looking at -- but from another angle, farther up the road...



For further information, see Monmouth's Daily Review Atlas, the Galesburg Register-Mail, and the Burlington Hawk Eye.

Come for the annual felling of the tree!

Last year, when the large tree limb fell on my house, I begged the tree removal expert to remove that tree. He argued that it still had several good years left in it, and he hated to bring down a perfectly good tree before its time -- especially as we are the "Maple City" and the tree in question was a century-old sugar maple.

Well, my fears were more founded than his, I'm thinking.

Our neighborhood had some pretty rough weather yesterday. Just up the road, in Kirkwood, IL, some accounts clock the straight-line winds at anything from 95 to 128 miles per hour (or, if you work metric, it comes to roughly 153 to 206 kph). It came with about 1.4 inches of rain in the first half-hour of the storm. Just up here in Monmouth, we got slightly less severe winds, but still an inch of rain in about 25 minutes, and it came down horizontally.

I was over here at Mom & Pop's place, working on this here computer thingy. In the middle of the storm, the power went out. Call me paranoid, but the first thing I did when the conditions allowed was to get into my car and get over to my own house.
This was visible from my car, directly in front of the folks' place.

But below was what waited for me at home.


The pick-up truck belongs to the son of the neighbors directly across the street from me. He had just received the call to come to work, right before the storm hit. He's lucky -- we're lucky -- he was running a little late.


The irony here is, he had parked his truck in what is normally my space -- so I can have easy access to my own sidewalk, and not have to walk on uneven ground. I'm usually up and gone by noon, so if he'd parked in his normal space, ten feet forward, his truck would have been fine.



My house will be without power for a few days, they guess. I'm one of only a few thousand whose lines went down in the storm.

I may bring TiGrr and Peanut over to the folks' place a week ahead of schedule.

I hang my head in abject shame as I ask...

I realize that certain thoughts are beneath me, are, in fact, very, very wrong, but, in light of recent weather reports, I still caught myself wondering this:

All the towns in Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, and other points Middle-American only a couple of years ago made room for evacuees from New Orleans, and now they're getting deluged. Is there a message in all of this flood water?

I should give credit where due: this painting is by Edward
Hicks, and the image was sticky-fingered into my p-shop,
from Wikipedia

Gratuitous postcard: prickly over heat

No man, I suspect, ever lived long in the country without being bitten by these meteorol0gical ambitions. He likes to be hotter and colder, to have been more deeply snowed up, to have more trees and larger blown down than his neighbors.
-My Garden Acquaintance
by Robert T.S. Lowell


The weather is a big part of life out here in the boonies -- when it's dry, we complain, when it's raining, it's always too much or too little. It's too hot or too cold or too windy or too calm. This is because so much of our lives is dependent upon whether or not the heavens will be kind to our crops.

We also like to brag about the forces we've survived. I, myself, have ridden out a few tornadoes, a couple of flash floods, and countless severe thunderstorms, as well as a couple of earthquakes and a very, very bad spaghetti experience at my grandmother's house. I still like oregano and basil, and have some of each growing in my garden. The basil is intentional, as it's not winter hardy in this climate. The oregano has volunteered and is threatening to choke out the columbine, the aggressive little b*stard.

I have yet to plant my tomatoes in the ground. They're still in little plastic pots on a shelf on my porch, just waiting for a raccoon to come along again and knock them all across creation.

I also need to mow my yard (what there is left after the many truckloads of mulch tossed about indiscriminately in the attempt to keep growth at a minimum, and, therefore to keep mowing -- and gas usage -- to a similar low). Add to this, I will be in very big trouble if the city decides that Queen Anne's Lace, swee'peas, mulberry bushes and raspberry canes are nuisance plants.

But all of that is designed to keep the dogs and children from trying to mess with the kittens -- and from peeking in my windows when I'm lolling about mostly (or completely) nekkid in the heat.

Which is what I will be doing tonight.

I haven't yet put my air conditioning unit back in the window for the summer, so it's the bathtub, the fan, and a prayer for the storm to come a little early -- instead of near sunrise, have it roll in just before midnight, perhaps? Or, maybe, have a winning lottery ticket waft in on the breeze and get stuck on my sweaty forehead, so I can run out and buy a house with a pool and insulation and central air conditioning and stuff tonight?

Eh. I'll get the bath ready.

In for some nice weather

Storm's a-brewin'


I don't know why it is that this chafes me so, but every time the meteorologist comes on the television screen and says something about a "really nice day tomorrow," I want to scream, "Nice for whom?"

Mom tells me I was born in the midst of a heat wave long years ago, and, quite frankly, I've resented warm sunny weather ever since.

For starters, I like storms. If I had a good, solid shelter, I'd probably even admit I like tornadoes. I like the way the wind shifts and the temperature drops and the sky changes from cerulean to varied shades of gray -- everything from slate to pale ash, with bursts of crisp white.

But more, I like to breathe. Warm sunny days make pollen. Warm sunny days kick up dust. Warm sunny days stir those dried mold spores and bring them hither. Warm sunny days are cruel.

So I now sit here, listening to the rumbles of approaching thunder, and the smile rises from deep within me. It's going to be a really nice day, today.

Winter sports, my style

Taking sports safety to an extreme: "Yes, you can go out on your sled, but always ride it with a grown-up, and never on slippery snow."

It looks as if Rick Moran of RWNH has been taking lessons from me in the "how to respond to winter" department. My rule of thumb is, if you don't have to go out into the icy misery, just don't do it. Every time I attempt icy sidewalks, I end up studying the treetops from a recumbent position. I count myself lucky -- this past winter, I fell a total of four times, and really only injured myself once (I dislocated my shoulder a tad. I didn't even realize it was more than a slight sprain until it popped itself back in, about a week later, accompanied by a collection of those seven words commonly used by the sinestrosphere). Rick says he is sore in a bunch of places... I hope he's planning to see a doctor, especially about his crunched elbow.

Injuries are no fun, no matter what your age. Still, we recover from this sort of thing fairly rapidly when we're kids, but once we're out of school, falls are much more dangerous.

Eleven years ago (give or take a few months), I fell on the pavement, and I'm only just this past year or so able to walk long distances without leaning upon a cane. Some of the damage to one knee is permanent. The harm to my psyche is... well, my psyche was already damaged, but it added a phobia of running after buses. I'd rather walk twenty miles than race to the bus stop, today.

And don't get me going on icy sidewalks!

The sooner the final thaw gets here, the happier I will be (until allergies kick in).

And the faster Rick recovers, the better for those of us who enjoy reading his blogs. Who knows how the pain will affect his perspective on Jack Bauer, after all?

Hi. Wind Watch

I've been stretched a bit thinly, this week, since the power outages and the pet care and multiple social obligations whatever, so last evening, as I was quitting my online activities, one of the last things I did was to check a local-access weather site.

As the site came up on my slow modem connected system, in the center of the screen came up the above message ("Hi. Wind Watch"). In retrospect, I wish I'd done a screencap, since it's been changed now to "HI WIND WARNING."

Instead, I responded as I thought most logical at the time:

Without thinking, I said, "hello," and reached into my pocket, pulled out my watch, and wound it.




I think I may still need sleep.

Gratuitous postcard: How's the weather where you are?

tornado! circa 1925-1938, probably near Casper, Wyoming

This postcard was in a batch of snapshots, studio portraits and photo postcards I bought yesterday at auction... I spent less than I thought I'd have to, and, in the process, made a couple of antique dealers upset that they'd missed the lot.

The thing is, I usually don't buy old photos, straight, because I have no idea who these people are, and I feel guilty about letting these strangers into my family's space. I also wonder how it can happen that so many personal items show up for sale at so impersonal a setting as a consignment auction. It just seems wrong, somehow.

Still, this particular photo postcard made me stop and think about how lucky we've been, this past season. Our weather conditions have not exactly been great, but at least we've been spared the worst of everything. To the north of us, in Mercer County, IL, the ice and winds took down dozens of the poles supporting power lines, phone lines, etc, leaving the entire of the county without light, heat, or regular communication (even some of the cellular phone service, I'm told, was disrupted by the ice on the antennae).

To the south, in Arkansas, sections of towns were leveled by what was probably a cluster of tornadoes like the one in the photo.

Thus far, all we've suffered in Monmouth, from the weather, is occasional inconvenience.

And for that, I'm grateful.

It was a dark and stormy night

It was ducking fark, last night. But that was only because I had no electricity, dammit. My next-door neighbors to the west went to stay with her mother, and my neighbors to the east... had power, damn them! I was ready to slip out and run an extension cord from his outside plugs to my heater and tv... But being the ethical creature I'm forced to be, I missed Stargate SG-1 and Stargate: Atlantis in the wee hours. I hate when that happens.

So, as you can guess, the ice storm had very little real impact on me. The temp outside wasn't so bad that my house became dangerously cold, or I'd have come over to my parents' house -- even if they'd lost their power, they still have a wood-burning back-up furnace and a lovely fireplace, so nobody would freeze in their house.

The power was out at my house from 8:12 p.m. last night to 3:00(ish) p.m. today (I say "ish" because I wasn't home to confirm the exact time the light came on in the bathroom and the furnace kicked in to warm the kitties back up again. I was at an auction, as usual). My house went from 72º F to 55ºF in the course of 16 hours. I got dirty looks from TiGrr and Peanut as I left the place... I think they wanted me to stay under the covers with them all day. Believe me, I was sorely tempted.


But before the storm downed power lines and blew up transformers and stuff, I was outside for a little while, foolishly risking my neck walking under ice-laden trees to take pix. While I was out there, I could hear the firecracker pop! of branches snapping all around the neighborhood, and a couple of times later in the evening, as the ice thickened and the winds rose again, I heard the distant bang of a blown transformer or collapsing tree.

Yes, the tree is frozen in this position by ice and wind.

I wasn't the only reckless soul out there, either.

So far, they're estimating that the outlying towns, like Little York, Stronghurst, and such, should be getting their electricity again by Tuesday afternoon or evening. Monmouth College is on the same grid as my house, so they were dark through the night and into the afternoon, today. No injuries, that we have heard, so far.

The roads are no longer glare ice, around here, since the temp this morning rose above freezing for a few hours -- before it started snowing. We have an interesting, slushy mess, and the sewers are blocked by chunks of ice, so the streets in town are seeing moderate flooding.


They're still advising that people avoid travel if at all possible.

So much for an early spring.

How Cold Is It? Check for Chilblains

Even now that we've seen our first day above 20º F. in a few weeks (hey, it got up to 42º here!), Rick Moran, over at RightWing NutHouse is a bit chilled, this winter, and wonders what people used to do long, long ago to amuse themselves when they were shut in during the deep of winter.

I know what my mom used to do, only a decade or so ago.

We worked together at the world's largest outdoor museum. We were hired on the same day, trained in the same class, and often worked the precise same schedule (that was rare, for any two people, back then. I have no idea how it works now, since they've had what seem to be biennial management upheavals). We also often worked the same sites with the same people (also rare, considering how many are employed by the Foundation).

There was one young man in particular who had ... limited life experience, shall we say? He was in his mid-twenties, and may just have been the man to send shopping for sky hooks and left-handed paintbrushes. This young man used to come to work on mornings when the temperature dipped below 58º F. crying out how bitterly cold it was out there.

Mom, being the sort of person she is, would turn to him and say, "That's not cold! You don't know what cold is!" Then she would proceed to tell him about the time (1978 or '79, I think) when she was coming back from the East Coast by train, came through Chicago's Union Station, boarded the train for that last leg of the ride home (toward Galesburg, IL). The train pulled out of the station, and then just sat there. With the heat going full power, the car was a balmy 36º, according to one passenger. Mom had a blanket, plus she was dressed for winter, but it got right nippy, as they say.

They sat there, just outside Union Station, for six hours (she emphasized this miserable wait). The conductor finally came on the public address system to announce that they were going to be there a while longer, since the minus 32º (with wind chill bringing it down to minus 64º) arctic blast had frozen the switches in the rail yards, and they'd had to bring out crews with blowtorches to thaw the switches out before anybody could go anywhere.


So, Mom would recount this tale, every time the young man complained of the cold in Tidewater, Virginia. And the young man would always respond with, "Oh, Mrs. K., you always tell that story!" and Mom would always respond to him, "That's right, dear. Every time you complain about the cold...."


I'm not sure he ever quite figured out how much Mom was yanking his chain.

But it was darned cold that year. I think that was the year I learned the language of temperature.