greybeard
Well-known member
pursuant to Redcowsrule's winter post...
Oh, it's not winter itself that bothers me, or the physical absence of warmth---it's the sneaky, but abrupt way it gets here in East Texas, and the little inconveniences it causes me--there are a few distinct (tho admittedly 1st world) disadvantages of living here. Compared to most US latitudes we don't have much of a winter, or a terribly long one. But, we also are bereft of an Autumn, and that is the source of my dislike for this time of year--no glorious foliage colors, very few perfectly nice days when the blazing sun has moved further South in it's eon's old east/west path, no influx of cardinals, robins, no smell of fresh raked leaves burning--none of the seasonal events we see in the coffee table magazines that let us know winter's icy grasp is about to reach out for us. Just, another week of sunshine and occasional afternoon shower. It sounds so pleasant so why my angst?
I'm an early riser, and I mean early, even tho I am officially 'retired' from America's workforce. Depending what time I actually climbed into bed the "night" before, 4:30-5am would be about average for me to get up and about, and like most, I have a morning routine year 'round...and it goes as such:
Coffee gets made first (at home, I don't do breakfast at all--haven't in decades. Raising 4 kids as a single parent forever soured me on bangin' pots, pans, plates, bowls and skillets around 7 days/week before the sun gets up) Nope, not even a slice of toast or pop tart--certainly not a bowl of that despicable Cap'n Crunch. While coffee is making, I go to the little room, do my mandatory biologicals and the hygiene thing.
Since I live about as far out in the sticks as one can and still be within an hour's drive to the country's 4th largest city, I often grab a BIG cup of coffee, my cigs, take the binoculars off it's home on the coat hook in the laundry room as I walk by, the spotlight from it's permanent abode on the laundry table, and head right on out to the back porch--usually just as I am dressed. More often than not, 'dressed' is an over statement--pajamas maybe, but usually not even that, since I can barely make out the cars and trucks driving along the highway on the North side of the property and I assume no voyeur would be interested in looking at an old man in his skivvies anyway. I sit down, take that first glorious sip of strong black coffee, sweetened with 1/2 teaspoon of sugar or a squirt of honey, and lite up a smoke--inhaling that first dose of nicotine to mix deliciously with the caffiene still lingering on my tongue. Flick on the spotlight, peering thru the blackness for signs of wildlife...a deer across the way, a family of raccoon making their way from the pond, the cattle bedded down in the green soft grass, still glistening with heavy dew under the brightness of modern technology's 3000 candlepower . Life at that moment, albeit shortened by my vices, is good. By the time my 2nd or 3rd cup of dark roast is gone, the first grey streaks of light appear from the East, beyond the pond, heralding the proverbial 'dawn's early light'. Binoculars in hand, I scour the land of my father before me, and start counting the cattle--another morning ritual and necessity.
Then, one day, it all abruptly changes. Like this morning. I am awakened at 3:20 am by a strange but vaguely familiar sensations. There is a slight smell of something burning, and the air moving across my face is oddly warm. It hits me-the heating unit has kicked on and the dust is burning off the coils I haven't vacuumed out since it last shut down back in April. Will it burn the house down this time? I get up, go down the 17 steps into the living room, walk across the soft carpet and then tread quietly over the kitchen floor's linoleum to make coffee, and there it is, the 2nd indicator that November is here, and the reminder (as if Jane hasn't reminded me enough) that I haven't yet replaced the bat of insulation that feral cat pulled down from the floor joists--my feet are cold on the floor. Sigh... Before I really get out the door good, my glasses have fogged over, the spotlight doesn't seem to be working right, and I'm back inside rummaging thru the lower bedroom closet for one of several jackets that haven't seen wear for months and months, thinking that within a few weeks, I won't be able to do that, since I have a bad habit of wearing one in the morning, pulling it off by noon and throwing it into the back seat of the truck, until one day, I am forced to gather them all up and come trundling back in with an armload of cloth looking all the world like Joe Crap the Ragman hawking his textiles on the filthy street of a nasty smelling Calcutta bazaar.
Back out, I realize the spotlight has suffered the same fate as my now discarded glasses, fogged over to such an extent it's now opaque lens is diffusing the beam to uselessness. Wipe it off, and the cows are down, white vapor streaming from their nostrils as if their lungs are afire, and the pond covered with enough steam to make Yellowstone's bubbling cauldrons envious. The thermometer shows 36°F. The grass is again glistening but now from a fine light film of frost, as are the porch step handrails.
"How can it frost, with temps above freezing?" I ask....never mind, I remember now, Mr. Shirley- my 7th grade science teacher's explanation.
I sip coffee, and think of all the things I have to do in the next few days. The well sits in the yard, in it's nakedness because I let another summer pass without building it a nice comfy well house to ward off the low temperatures and strong North wind, all the roses, still in full green leaf and wondrous scarlet bloom will need mulching in, I'll have to check all the above ground piping's insulation since mocking birds seem to enjoy pecking it off and the entire spectrum of Southern summer insects evidently find it quite nutritious. Those clumps of Johnson grass the cows have been chomping on for the last couple of months mean I'll need to change pastures till the first really heavy frost comes lest that grass produce the near instant death of prussic acid, and change out the mineral feeders' contents for high mag mineral. (and did I put antifreeze back in the backhoe last August when it's lower radiator hose suddenly developed an aneurysm 1/4 mile from it's normal parking spot--or did I just steal a couple gallons of Jane's bottled water to fill it with till I got back?)
The lawnmowers and tiller need to have their fuel treated with stabilizer, the lawn tractor used just last Friday to cut the overgrown lawn. Both sprayers to be emptied and antifreeze solution circulated thru the pumps, and the roller pump removed, filled, capped and stored in the shop till next April. Next trip by the pond, pick up all my fishing gear, my lawn chair and pull the rowboats way up on bank. All the water hoses rolled up and drained or drained and stretched out along the yard fence in case I need one when the temperature has headed far south of my comfort zone next January. (I learned long ago, not to try to unroll a water hose when it's very cold--they magically turn into short useless pieces of water hose.)
The big stuff is done, hay is waiting under cover to be pulled out and fed as needed, and the winter forage planted, temporarily fenced off from the cattle with strands of wire pulsing 8000 volts, potentially with enough joules of electrical energy to knock even the most hungry and amorous bull into erectile dysfunction mode. Deer of course, hop over it as if it doesn't exist and f their tracks are any indication, have been busily gorging themselves enough to qualify for the biblical definition of gluttony. A loafing shed has been doubled in size, so this year, none of the cattle will have to endure a windswept wet cold night--or a solid week of it like last February saw here.
I have to make sure the spare batteries are charged and a supply of starting fluid is on the shop shelf, because I learned in my mis-spent youth that, "when it's cold, roughnecks quit and diesels don't start". Get out the campstoves and lanterns, clean the dirt dauber nests from the stoves, because with the first heavy frost or a little bit of ice, each and every one of the millions of unattended and undisciplined US Govt pine trees around me will be dutifully looking for a powerline to launch themselves upon with fanaticism enough to look all the world like an Islamic suicide bomber. No power means no water well and no coffee and without morning coffee I get rather irritable and downright unsociable.
Yes, IMO, November is a detestable month here in East Texas, except for that one last Thursday, followed by it's week of turkey sandwiches, turkey & dumplings, and even turkey tacos, until the picked over carcass is thrown out for the dogs to gleefully deconstruct as if they hadn't been fed since Labor Day. Still, even tho I have it easy compared to most, the month always suddenly heralds in, yet another winter of my discontent, and it maliciously does so, almost overnight.
Oh, it's not winter itself that bothers me, or the physical absence of warmth---it's the sneaky, but abrupt way it gets here in East Texas, and the little inconveniences it causes me--there are a few distinct (tho admittedly 1st world) disadvantages of living here. Compared to most US latitudes we don't have much of a winter, or a terribly long one. But, we also are bereft of an Autumn, and that is the source of my dislike for this time of year--no glorious foliage colors, very few perfectly nice days when the blazing sun has moved further South in it's eon's old east/west path, no influx of cardinals, robins, no smell of fresh raked leaves burning--none of the seasonal events we see in the coffee table magazines that let us know winter's icy grasp is about to reach out for us. Just, another week of sunshine and occasional afternoon shower. It sounds so pleasant so why my angst?
I'm an early riser, and I mean early, even tho I am officially 'retired' from America's workforce. Depending what time I actually climbed into bed the "night" before, 4:30-5am would be about average for me to get up and about, and like most, I have a morning routine year 'round...and it goes as such:
Coffee gets made first (at home, I don't do breakfast at all--haven't in decades. Raising 4 kids as a single parent forever soured me on bangin' pots, pans, plates, bowls and skillets around 7 days/week before the sun gets up) Nope, not even a slice of toast or pop tart--certainly not a bowl of that despicable Cap'n Crunch. While coffee is making, I go to the little room, do my mandatory biologicals and the hygiene thing.
Since I live about as far out in the sticks as one can and still be within an hour's drive to the country's 4th largest city, I often grab a BIG cup of coffee, my cigs, take the binoculars off it's home on the coat hook in the laundry room as I walk by, the spotlight from it's permanent abode on the laundry table, and head right on out to the back porch--usually just as I am dressed. More often than not, 'dressed' is an over statement--pajamas maybe, but usually not even that, since I can barely make out the cars and trucks driving along the highway on the North side of the property and I assume no voyeur would be interested in looking at an old man in his skivvies anyway. I sit down, take that first glorious sip of strong black coffee, sweetened with 1/2 teaspoon of sugar or a squirt of honey, and lite up a smoke--inhaling that first dose of nicotine to mix deliciously with the caffiene still lingering on my tongue. Flick on the spotlight, peering thru the blackness for signs of wildlife...a deer across the way, a family of raccoon making their way from the pond, the cattle bedded down in the green soft grass, still glistening with heavy dew under the brightness of modern technology's 3000 candlepower . Life at that moment, albeit shortened by my vices, is good. By the time my 2nd or 3rd cup of dark roast is gone, the first grey streaks of light appear from the East, beyond the pond, heralding the proverbial 'dawn's early light'. Binoculars in hand, I scour the land of my father before me, and start counting the cattle--another morning ritual and necessity.
Then, one day, it all abruptly changes. Like this morning. I am awakened at 3:20 am by a strange but vaguely familiar sensations. There is a slight smell of something burning, and the air moving across my face is oddly warm. It hits me-the heating unit has kicked on and the dust is burning off the coils I haven't vacuumed out since it last shut down back in April. Will it burn the house down this time? I get up, go down the 17 steps into the living room, walk across the soft carpet and then tread quietly over the kitchen floor's linoleum to make coffee, and there it is, the 2nd indicator that November is here, and the reminder (as if Jane hasn't reminded me enough) that I haven't yet replaced the bat of insulation that feral cat pulled down from the floor joists--my feet are cold on the floor. Sigh... Before I really get out the door good, my glasses have fogged over, the spotlight doesn't seem to be working right, and I'm back inside rummaging thru the lower bedroom closet for one of several jackets that haven't seen wear for months and months, thinking that within a few weeks, I won't be able to do that, since I have a bad habit of wearing one in the morning, pulling it off by noon and throwing it into the back seat of the truck, until one day, I am forced to gather them all up and come trundling back in with an armload of cloth looking all the world like Joe Crap the Ragman hawking his textiles on the filthy street of a nasty smelling Calcutta bazaar.
Back out, I realize the spotlight has suffered the same fate as my now discarded glasses, fogged over to such an extent it's now opaque lens is diffusing the beam to uselessness. Wipe it off, and the cows are down, white vapor streaming from their nostrils as if their lungs are afire, and the pond covered with enough steam to make Yellowstone's bubbling cauldrons envious. The thermometer shows 36°F. The grass is again glistening but now from a fine light film of frost, as are the porch step handrails.
"How can it frost, with temps above freezing?" I ask....never mind, I remember now, Mr. Shirley- my 7th grade science teacher's explanation.I sip coffee, and think of all the things I have to do in the next few days. The well sits in the yard, in it's nakedness because I let another summer pass without building it a nice comfy well house to ward off the low temperatures and strong North wind, all the roses, still in full green leaf and wondrous scarlet bloom will need mulching in, I'll have to check all the above ground piping's insulation since mocking birds seem to enjoy pecking it off and the entire spectrum of Southern summer insects evidently find it quite nutritious. Those clumps of Johnson grass the cows have been chomping on for the last couple of months mean I'll need to change pastures till the first really heavy frost comes lest that grass produce the near instant death of prussic acid, and change out the mineral feeders' contents for high mag mineral. (and did I put antifreeze back in the backhoe last August when it's lower radiator hose suddenly developed an aneurysm 1/4 mile from it's normal parking spot--or did I just steal a couple gallons of Jane's bottled water to fill it with till I got back?)
The lawnmowers and tiller need to have their fuel treated with stabilizer, the lawn tractor used just last Friday to cut the overgrown lawn. Both sprayers to be emptied and antifreeze solution circulated thru the pumps, and the roller pump removed, filled, capped and stored in the shop till next April. Next trip by the pond, pick up all my fishing gear, my lawn chair and pull the rowboats way up on bank. All the water hoses rolled up and drained or drained and stretched out along the yard fence in case I need one when the temperature has headed far south of my comfort zone next January. (I learned long ago, not to try to unroll a water hose when it's very cold--they magically turn into short useless pieces of water hose.)
The big stuff is done, hay is waiting under cover to be pulled out and fed as needed, and the winter forage planted, temporarily fenced off from the cattle with strands of wire pulsing 8000 volts, potentially with enough joules of electrical energy to knock even the most hungry and amorous bull into erectile dysfunction mode. Deer of course, hop over it as if it doesn't exist and f their tracks are any indication, have been busily gorging themselves enough to qualify for the biblical definition of gluttony. A loafing shed has been doubled in size, so this year, none of the cattle will have to endure a windswept wet cold night--or a solid week of it like last February saw here.
I have to make sure the spare batteries are charged and a supply of starting fluid is on the shop shelf, because I learned in my mis-spent youth that, "when it's cold, roughnecks quit and diesels don't start". Get out the campstoves and lanterns, clean the dirt dauber nests from the stoves, because with the first heavy frost or a little bit of ice, each and every one of the millions of unattended and undisciplined US Govt pine trees around me will be dutifully looking for a powerline to launch themselves upon with fanaticism enough to look all the world like an Islamic suicide bomber. No power means no water well and no coffee and without morning coffee I get rather irritable and downright unsociable.
Yes, IMO, November is a detestable month here in East Texas, except for that one last Thursday, followed by it's week of turkey sandwiches, turkey & dumplings, and even turkey tacos, until the picked over carcass is thrown out for the dogs to gleefully deconstruct as if they hadn't been fed since Labor Day. Still, even tho I have it easy compared to most, the month always suddenly heralds in, yet another winter of my discontent, and it maliciously does so, almost overnight.
