Can't Help Writing About The Weather

All things are relative, and one of the most relative things I know is the weather. Or rather, the perception of weather, specifically, the perception of temperature.

In the middle of a heat wave, with the thermometer in the 90s, a drop to the high 80s brings blessed relief. Likewise, less than a month ago, many of us Vermonters and flatlanders alike were out crunching around in our frozen gardens looking for signs of spring, sans gloves, hat or even coat, with the temperature in the 20s.

But then there was a string of days when the daytime temperature rose above freezing, though the nights were still frosty--maple syrup-making weather. These were followed by a week or so when the hens' water dish was--miracle of miracles--still liquid in the morning (this brought the syrup-making season to a close).

Then yesterday the wind blew all day. I couldn't concentrate on anything. I wanted to be outside working in the sun, but the wind was too strong. I wanted to do some work inside, but I couldn't concentrate on anything. I felt chilled and out of sorts. I assumed it was the wind.

At night, I tried to read in bed, but couldn't get comfortable. I got up and put on a fleece turtleneck over my pajamas. That was not enough, so I added a pair of warm socks (I never wear socks to bed). Finally I turned off the light and tunneled under the duvet and fell asleep thinking of those medieval illustrations of people lying in bed wearing weird turbans and caps.

This morning it was 16 outside...and 55 in the house. The furnace was down! My husband made a fire in the wood stove and a call to the repairman. I put on lots of clothes and did chores. Not a single chickadee was singing. While pooper scooping the frozen yard, my gloved fingers lost all sensation. When I got back inside, the repairman had been and repaired.

The house temperature is up to 59 now, but I'm still cold.