The wind chill is really nothing

A magpie just flew by. Going by its tail, I'd say there's a crosswind. It was definitely experiencing turbulence. It's that kind of day. Environment Canada sums it up quite nicely: "Day: Periods of light snow with the risk of freezing drizzle. Amount 2 to 4 cm. Wind northwest 30 km/h. High minus 4 with temperature falling to minus 9 this afternoon." Actually that forecast sounds much like my year so far. Only the temperature has dipped much lower. Oh well. I have a down-filled parka, serious mitts, wool socks and big warm boots. Hell, I can take it. No problem.

Damn those speedbumps between lanes in the mountains

I like to cut corners when I drive, especially in the mountains on that curvy stretch east of Golden or down in the Okanagan valley south of Sicamous.

In the city, driving to work, trying to use my brakes as little as possible, I like to cruise at a constant speed, 35-40 kph, all the way from eastbound on University Drive to my parking spot south of Luther, through three left turns and one right. Fine. But this morning brought a brief lining of snow, just enough to turn already timid drivers into papercups on wheels, braking 40 feet in front of where they don't need to brake at all, driving 20, peeping with their signal lights pathetically. That means I have to brake, drive 20, stay wide on my turns (but peep only if necessary). If I can roar past, as my 35-40 seems to be to their 20, I'll throw a glare, maybe broadcast my personalized horn-tone (the opening brass chorale to "All You Need is Love").

Back in my office, before I do anything else, I have to look north out my window at the grey sky and geese.

Had

Squirrels are a bit too bold for my liking. However, I do admire their work ethic. But not so much of late. About a month ago I watched the squirrel take its usual shortcut over the shed and down the tree to the bird feeder. But it didn't stop there. Down to the ground it jumped and two leaps later it was under the barbecue cover. That's when I became alarmed. From where I was standing it looked as if the squirrel was in there beating its head against the cover at high speed. Why not against a tree, I thought. It's that thought that alarmed me. But whatever. Then out the squirrel popped, retracing its path up the tree, over the shed and out of sight. This went on for quite some time before I told H about the poor squirrel's disorder. I'm guessing too much heavy metal in its diet, I said. Or maybe arsenic poisoning, though I don't know if the squirrel is showing other symptoms and I'm not sure if beating one's head against a barbecue cover counts as a neurological disorder. So H stood there with me the other day and, sure enough, the squirrel disappeared under the cover yet again. Then came the repeated thumping. So sad, I said. After the squirrel left H shook his head. Checked under the cover. Who knew it had such a soft lining? Yes. Had.

The night conceals a draft

My daughter will phone from her aunt's car on highway 11 next Sunday night, returning from Saskatoon. I'm just guessing, trying not to say too much in advance of the truth. That's a tactic I learned this afternoon while reading about 83 pages I must have autosaved every two or three minutes in July of this year.

If I know what's there without reading, why read? If there's no cut in shortcut, why take it? What I saw today should be pressed to the ground and over-driven, boldly, italically. It should be swung round Chaplin Lake to Ernfold and Morse, never read but in a town called Raven.

Home again, home again

I got home on Tuesday night. Nothing is the same. Things seem to be building. I swear each day is many stories high, each with a ledge on which to stand and off which one could easily jiggity jig.

Today is much the same, only several stories higher. I climbed out of bed early, my feet restless. Ready to go, but going nowhere. Wooden parts, tangled strings, no central rod to make things easy. Just a poorly manipulated marionette in bad pajamas, casting an unrecognizable shadow on the wall. I thought of Plato as I curled up with the cat in the sun room. A given. Nodded off as I waited for the deadbeat sun. Each time I drifted off, I woke with a jolt. That feeling of falling. As if I'd let go. As if I'd cave. Then I remembered. There are strings attached.

With those strings in mind, and all those stories, I climbed in the car and went uptown. Had coffee and a tea biscuit with raspberry jam. Yes, jam. As I ate, I was conscious of my hand's path to my mouth. Back and forth it went, smooth and effortless. Hats off to the puppeteer, I thought as I took the last bite. Only one sticky finger. Overall, I'd say the performance was fairly convincing.