Seeds of Cabin Fever

 

Every Fall I say the same thing:  I’m going to get outside every day, no matter what, all winter long.  I won’t let the weather stop me.  If I go out EVERY SINGLE DAY, I’ll just get used to it and I won’t get cabin fever.

Then comes a day like this.  It’s about 8 degrees Farenheit.  The wind is blowing from the north at a steady 15 mph and gusting over 25 mph.  The frozen snow is driving across the yard in big plumes.  The sidewalks and streets are patched with snowdrifts and black ice.  I have chicken soup in the crock pot and both woodstoves are glowing red.  I baked a loaf of potato bread.  There’s a two-pound box of chocolates on top of the piano left over from Christmas.

Why, oh why, should I venture away from my hearth?  Why should I do anything but huddle here against the cold wind and sip some tea, do some knitting, take a nap?  There are a hundred good reasons to stay inside and I really only need two or three.  I’m not going out.

Then tomorrow it will be too slushy–or too snowy–or something else and the first of March will roll around with me standing next to the frosted pane, a wild snarl on my face.  Cabin fever, big time.

I take vitamin C, exercise, eat right and do everything I can to avoid getting a cold during the winter–and haven’t had one for several years.  But I think I’ll have to admit defeat in avoiding cabin fever.  I feel it coming on and all I can do is try to live through it.

The seed catalogs should be arriving in the mail soon.

Weekend Update: Yuletide Mysteries

1.  Why, when I went to put my winter boots on for the first time this season, did I find them full of DOG BISCUITS?

2.  How many times has the set of stainless steel cheese knives (that we received from Patty, the one with the crush on my husband) been “regifted”?

3.  Though I know he plowed the driveway and plucked his check off the back door, I still have never really seen Ronnie Farnsworth.  What DOES he look like?

4.  What is the etiquette for Seasons Greetings these days?  Cheesy Christmas letter only?  Letter in a card?  Card with handwritten note to EVERYONE?  Email?  Nothing?  TEXTING???

5.  Is it really all right to put everybody’s gifts in those cunning little gift bags?  I hate to wrap presents as much as the next guy, but I think all those bags under the tree make the place look like a bus station.

6.  And where IS the tape?

7.  And why do I save all those teensy little 3×9-inch pieces of gift wrap from year to year?

8.  Why does the car always need some kind of major repair two weeks before Christmas? (yes, there is an Ominous Sound…)

9.  How would we ever make it through the winter without all the lights, prayers, and feasting?

10. O Magnum Mysterium:  “O great mystery and wondrous sacrament, that animals should see the newborn Lord, lying in the manger!  Blessed Virgin, whose womb was deemed worthy to bear Christ the Lord. Alleluia!  (Responsory for the Office of Matins on Christmas Day)

The Nefarious “Mr. Farnsworth”

 

First, a brief History of Snow Removal Practices at the Pine Street Estate:  In the beginning there was the shovel.  We shoveled the driveway and sidewalk by hand, and when I say “we” I really mean “I” (at least most of the time).  Occasionally, a truculent child was hauled out to help with the effort.  The whole ordeal (hauling & shoveling) took hours.  Then, we purchased a snowblower and Walter plowed the driveway with it.  Second snowblower (bigger and better), same deal.  Years go by.  Scroll to…

…this past September.  Walter schedules surgery to have the tumor on his right adrenal gland removed.  I gently suggest he might not want to be running the snowblower this winter.  Eventually he acquiesces to hiring somebody with a plow to do the driveway.  My task is to “ask around” and fine this somebody.

I start by asking Dan Jarvis (not his real name, but it could be), the guy who works on my car, to recommend somebody.  He immediately refers me to Ronnie Farnsworth (not his real name, but it could be) and even recites Ronnie’s phone number off the top of his head.  “He does all my plowing,” says Dan.  “He’s real reliable.”

I call Ronnie forthwith.  He isn’t home.  I leave a message.  He calls back, I’m not home, etc.  Repeat three times.  On the fourth try, a woman answers the phone and takes down the particulars; we chat, she knows my neighborhood, we have acquaintances in common; I discover she is Ronnie’s mother and she seems to have taken a shine to me.  This is all good.  A strong referral from his mom will probably motivate Ronnie to plow my driveway.  After several more false starts I finally speak with Ronnie himself and he says he will come look at the job.

Ronnie scopes out the driveway during an afternoon when I’m out running errands.  He calls me that night and says he recognized our house at once:  his friend, Kurt Twombley (his real name–what the hell), used to live here. [Digression:  the Twombley's had five children, most of whom are still in the area.  Though we've lived here 25 years, this is still the Twombley House]  Ronnie says he’ll take the job, but we have to move the four cords of wood stacked next to the driveway so he’ll have room to pile the snow there.

OK.  Moving four cords of wood is a huge pain in the ass, but we can see Ronnie’s point.  We hire Chris, our handyman, to come help and after a session or two, we have three cords of wood moved into the cellar.  The remaining cord has only recently been delivered; it’s green and would benefit from a season outdoors.  Walter decides to leave it where it is.  He calls Ronnie and says the driveway is ready to go.  Ronnie says he’ll come by and set out some stakes so he can see how far to push the snow before the truck goes off the cliff behind the garage.

Again, I’m out when Ronnie comes by with the stakes, but I see the bright red paint on the ends of the rough one-bys when I get home.  There’s a message on the answering machine from Ronnie.  That last cord of wood has to go.  He can’t push the snow around it and the whole thing will probably come down anyway if he runs the plow by it.  I inform Walter of this last directive and he goes ballistic.  He immediately calls Ronnie, gets the answering machine, and hollers, “We’re not moving that wood!!!  There’s enough room to drive two Mack trucks back there!!!!!  Call me back!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”  Ronnie does not call back.

Which brings us to yesterday.  The forecast is for snow.  I urge Walter to call Ronnie to seal the deal.  “Let’s pay him in advance for three plowings, ” I suggest, hoping that money will talk.  Walter makes the call.  Ronnie isn’t there.  Walter leaves the message with a young child, mentioning several times that we will leave the check on the back door.  Ronnie does not call back.

At this moment, my fate is in the hands of the nefarious Mr. Farnsworth (whom I have never yet laid eyes on).  It is snowing to beat the band and we’re due for another eight inches, to be followed by rain and ice.  Walter is at work.  I need to get the car out of the garage this evening to pick him up at the bus stop.  I know there is no point in calling Ronnie.  No doubt he’s out plowing Dan’s parking lot.  I’ll hang the check on the door and hope for the best, but I’ve urged Walter to get a ride home with somebody else.  It may be a while before we get the Volvo out of the garage.