This winter has created in me a new appreciation for my ancestors. My Irish branch emigrated from Ireland to Canada. Grandpa later moved south to Minnesota, not, apparently, for a change in climate. My intrepid Norwegian ancestors lived on the Minnesota plains among the natives, surviving in the outdoors. I guess it reminded them of the frigid Old Country?
Our weather in Tennessee, while mild by other standards, has gone from crappy to now horrible, really bad days. This week, as a nice frosting on the ice cake of the whole winter, we are snowed-in and iced-in, and in the woods and on a steep hill. (Stop snickering you folks from flatlands like frozen Iowa.) Snow plows, what few there are, don’t run out here and neither do the buses. We’ve been running the fireplace nonstop this week while last week was spring-like.
I just took a much-needed shower in a freezing bathroom at the furthest end of the house where the fireplace warmth can’t reach and cursed my brilliant idea to lay ceramic tile on the floor. That stuff gets COLD.
Of course, thinking back to my genealogy, I told myself to shut up. But, then, as if nature hadn’t messed enough with me, I was thinking of venturing to town in my intrepid little car, armed with my years of knowledge of driving on ice and snow, we have a 20-foot tree down across the driveway. Ever the optimist, hubby told me at least it didn’t fall across the power lines and we have more firewood. If my cabin fever takes hold even more, you will find his happy glass-half full body out in the woods come spring.
And we’re out of beer.