As I drove to work in the darkness today, steam rose from every manhole I passed, and my car’s thermometer indicated that it was just -4º F outside. Like much of the northern U.S., our holiday season this year has been bookended with a mini polar vortex.
My route to work bisects downtown Lima, where plenty of evergreen garlands, red bows, and twinkling lights are still on display. The bloated outdoor Christmas ornaments of municipal displays remind me of the massive 10# canned foods used in institutional cooking. A foot-wide ball ornament appeals to me about as much as a 112 oz. can of chocolate pudding.
In the darkness, the frozen weather made manifest the slightly spooky melancholy of that twilight time between Christmas and New Year’s Day. The anticipation of the season is over and there is plenty of room for the ghosts of holidays past to creep into the mind. As I drove through downtown, I recalled the times I spotted either of my grandfathers walking around that area during dawn or dusk. Both of them were wont to walk.
Following the stream of consciousness, I savored the sound of “Locomotive Breath” by Jethro Tull while I was at work today. Since I am an oddball, I imagined what a feat it might be to learn the flute solo from that song. To what purpose? I suppose it could be a neat party trick, but how would I secret a flute into such a gathering? These musings are pointless considering how rarely I attend parties. I suppose the value of performance fantasies consists solely in their capacity to entertain oneself.