cold comfort

I will admit it: I hate the rim this time of year. the cold that licks my legs and delves into the soft parts between my bones. the ice and sleet that rime my eyes. the dark that threatens never to lift. the harsh wind with nothing between its start in alberta and where it ends in louisiana except me. the stink of damp wool and the tug of heavy, wet clothing. my tendency to eat and drink and sleep too much and not to get outside often enough. I'm not from here, I just live here, and it's my considered opinion central midwesterners should face facts: people were not meant to live in this part of the country this time of year. we should return to our nomadic roots and abandon the states north of missouri come late october for southern digs and return in april to watch the daffodils come up.

but for all that I'll also admit there are things this time of year I love like no other. the sight of my dogs rollicking in the snow. the smell of coffee brewing at 5 o'clock and the exhilerating taste of it in the cold car and the warmth of the mug in my hands. driving the back roads slowly and listening to old country music. the sundogs and moondogs that might tinkle like glass shards if I was close enough to hear, and the northern lights that are like things alive. the hiss of fat snowflakes when they hit the ground. the tang of cherry and cedar and pine smoke. the absolute stillness in the house in the middle of a blizzard, knowing I don't have to go anywhere or do anything except sit here.

these are things that make life on the rim bearable for me. while the big things--the cold, the wind, the dark--depress me I'm comforted by the little things--dogs, coffee, music. there's wisdom in the old saying about facing one big spider rather than a thousand little ones. we can often outmaneuver the big things while the thousand little ones would overwhelm us. I know which I'd prefer facing me and which I want arrayed on my side.