For the first time in two weeks, there was no ice covering the bedroom window facing out to the pasture. I never take for granted our remarkable ability to look out of almost any window in the house and see donkeys or sheep.
This always grounds me, reminds me how much I love where we live, and appreciate living with animals, a gift I never imagined I would be given. They were out there, as usual, waiting for us – the donkeys heard Maria and I talking in bed.
At least for a while, the sun is out, and I’m celebrating by taking Maria out for breakfast and then stopping at Beverly’s Consignment shop to buy some surprise clothes for the Mansion aides.
A member of the Army Of Good bought a gift certificate for me, and that’s what I decided to do with it.
The storm is finally over, and we are returning to humanity. First, I have a lot of car scraping to do before going anywhere. The ice is still here. I hope everyone reading this is warm and dry. Later.
Tomorrow, we’ll see the movie Licorice Pizza; I plan to review it.
Your photographs – so artful … you, Maria and your farm family – the heart of winter.
Jon, here is a poem by the late poet David Budbill. He lived north of you on Judevine Mountain in the northeast of Vermont. He lived there for some forty years, but was originally from Ohio, I believe.
Weather Report
The weather is horrible here on Judevine Mountain.
It’s dark and cold all winter. Every day rain and snow
beat on your head. And the sun never shines. Then
it’s spring and more rain and ice and mud, too. And
after that, the blackflies eat you alive and then the
deerflies and then the mosquitoes and then it’s fall
before you ever noticed it was summer. Then there
might be a couple of weeks of decent weather and
then it starts to rain and snow again. It’s just awful
living here. I don’t think you’d like it here at all.
You better go find your own miserable place to live.