I wasn’t planning to write about the cold again, however much I suffer from it, but temperatures dropped down to the upper teens. That’s both inhuman and inhumane.
One result is that the small lake at the back of (north of) my house is frozen over. Only days ago, ten mallards—half drakes, half hens—were cavorting in the lake. I assume I won’t see hide nor hair of them again until it warms up next spring.
And I’m doing all I can to fortify myself against the cold. I’ve started wearing tee-shirts under my turtlenecks and heavy sweatshirts. I put extra blankets on the bed. I let the car warm up before I drive so that the heater will immediately fill the car with warmth. Whenever I go out, I wear my heavy winter gloves. And when I get up in the morning, I put on a sweatshirt under my snuggler (heavy bathrobe with legs).
I’d like to comfort myself with assurances that the cold won’t last. Soon warm weather will be returning. The trouble with that argument is that it isn’t true. It’s not even winter yet; winter doesn’t even start until December 21, a whole month from now. And it won’t end until March 20 next year.
It’s enough to make a man want to move back to the tropics.