IT COULD HAVE BEEN SNOW

It could have been snow. I'm not sure, really. All I know is that on Monday night the temperature plummeted to 10 degrees (that's Fahrenheit, for those of you in Oslo). Rain quickly turned to ice and by dawn the windows were frosted and the doors were nearly frozen shut.

 When I cautiously crept out onto the front porch the "yard" looked like this:

 I always put "yard" in quotes, because it isn't really a yard. It's an unnerving force of nature.

Although it was difficult for my muddled mind to accept the fact that this is a premature onset of winter, the daytime "high" temperature of 20 degrees eventually convinced me.

Frigid temperatures usually attack Tennessee in January. Or February. I've never seen ice floes and penguins in early November. I was completely unprepared. 

On Tuesday night I stayed up until way after dawn, to make sure the water pipes didn't freeze.

The first winter that I lived here, one of the frozen water pipes burst. I had to go down an icy hill to access the water meter and turn it off. I slipped on the ice, re-injured an old spinal injury, and was in agony for a year. That's why I'm still in pain and nearly crippled today. 

I'm dreading to see what my next heating bill is going to be. This house is colder than a snowman's kiss, and I kept the furnace blasting so the two cats (and I) wouldn't turn into   popsicles. 
I usually try to be very frugal when using the furnace, but as soon as I turn it on my bill quadruples. 

Inspired by the Polar temperatures, I made a big pot of quick, cheap, homemade soup. I use potatoes, onions, and vegetables (this time I used corn). And milk and butter.   
And if I happen to have ham, 
bacon, or clams, it's always a good addition.

Something just reminded me that we should never begin a sentence with a conjunction.  

Ready and willing to photographically document anything that happens around here, I ventured onto the back porch.

There wasn't really much to document except dying leaves and frosty weeds (and icicles hanging from my ass)....
but I'll share some pictures anyway - -
even though I'm fascinating  enough without visuals.
Am I smirking sarcastically? Naw.

These extremely tall trees by the back porch are my favorites, but every time there are strong winds I pray that they won't blow down and clobber the house.

It kinda looks like I live in an Alpine fantasy instead of a hillbilly hell, doesn't it?
Sorry - cold weather makes me say strange things.

BTW - the very first photo on this post is my autograph on the snow-covered car. 


I think I finally corrected the typos.

THORNS AND HAZE

 
My weary soul was safely tucked in bed, resting - - but I forced my reluctant and aching body outside to do some long-neglected work.

It was late afternoon and intriguingly warm (the nights are still chilly). I grabbed an old rusty pair of  shears (clippers?) with which I was determined to attack the forces of unbridled nature that surround me.

What??

Thorns. I'm talking about weird, wild, nasty bushes loaded with dangerous thorns. There are no flowers on these monstrosities, only thorns. They eagerly populate the back part of my property all the way up to the forest. 

Last summer they were so thick that I was afraid to go near them. By autumn I summoned the courage to tackle a few of them, but my inspiration quickly waned.

So here I am, in early spring, chopping the hell out of them - trying to keep them away from the house. With only work gloves, clippers (shears?), and help from the Almighty Lord.

I only threw that in to piss off the atheists.

There was a strange, sort-of-smokey haze all afternoon. It lingered in the air like  the finale of a smouldering brush fire. I don't know what the source was, but it looked eerie.

Was there any doubt that I would capture the essence of the afternoon with my El Cheapo camera? 

This crappy photo (above) doesn't do justice to the thorn bushes, but you can see them at the edge of the forest. They look wimpy on the photo - but in real most of them are nearly as tall as me, and I'm 6' 1".

This photo gives a better view of the thorn bushes (left) and the area that I've cleared (right).

I'll give you a moment to catch your breath and ponder the situation.

I have a lot more photos of the thorns but I'll spare you.
How about the weird afternoon haze?

The roof of my shack (lower right)

I'm guilty of talking about the damn cats too much, but it's EXTREMELY rare to get a photo of all three of them together. I snapped these quickie pics when I let them out on the back porch this morning.

 Bosco and Scruffy on the porch and Scratch (Kitzee) eating some grass.

Here are the trio of felines running to the carpet. The previous owners of this place left a hideous old carpet on the back porch. The cats enjoy laying on it to catch the morning sun.

 Purrrfect harmony.

At least for the moment.

AN HOUR LOST IS NEVER REGAINED

 The recent damnable but inevitable clock change took me by surprise this time around. I had completely forgotten about it.

Fortunately, I was prepared. I refused to turn my clocks back an hour last fall - - so consequently I didn't have to turn them ahead this time.

Springing an hour ahead means that we lost an hour, doesn't it? Hell, if I subtracted all the precious hours I lost in my life (for one reason or another) I'd be timeless.
Ponder that for awhile. It might get profound.

I've been under such an enormous amount of stress lately (for endlessly complicated reasons that I won't go into) that I've been plagued with panic attacks and dizzy spells. Nothing new here. I've suffered from similar anxieties my entire life.

Last Friday morning, when I first got out of bed, I was seized by a combination dizzy spell and panic attack - which was compounded by the fact that I  didn't have my glasses or contact lenses, so I couldn't see a damn thing.

I unceremoniously crashed into a bookcase and everything came tumbling down: cheap Chinese vases, brass trinkets from India.....and, of course, books. A ton (or so it seemed) of dust-covered books that I hadn't read in years.

I was hit in the head with the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. 
Lying there dazed amongst the clutter, I decided that it could have been worse. I could have been clobbered by Ayn Rand or Dostoevsky.

Fortunately nothing was broken - - except my pride...and perhaps my will to live.
The three cats gathered 'round and looked surprised.

As if my poor excuse for a life wasn't tainted with enough problems, the almost-springlike weather has vanished and winter has returned with a vengeance. Howling winds, bitter cold, ice, and a semblance of snow.

I desperately needed to get to my mailbox this morning. The accumulating ice, frozen mud, impenetrable slush, and falling snow made it impossible to use the car.
So I walked. As usual. It was frigid and beyond miserable. By the time I crawled back up the mountain to my shack, I was nearly frozen and on the verge of passing out.

Safely (??) back inside, I suddenly realized that I couldn't feel my feet. I pried my muddy boots off carefully, hoping that a collection of frozen toes wouldn't tumble out.
They didn't.

In the muddled void of my shivering contemplation (whatever that means), I realized that losing an hour might not be a bad thing after all. It will bring me an hour closer to July, when hopefully the ice will thaw out.

A view this morning from my back porch.

P.S.

I'm way behind in reading blogs lately. But I'm thinking of you.