A Fortnight and a Day

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Wake me when this mess of a winter is over. I really wish I could hibernate through this season. Having lived in Ohio for most of my life, I am accustomed to wide variances in weather. A 70 degree weekend in February is not impossible. I’ve also witnessed a two-inch snowfall in May. Still, recent weather has tested my endurance:

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These brief reprieves of warmer temperatures make it hard to acclimate oneself to the spells of ridiculous cold. Our average January high and low should be 33° and 19°, respectively, but it seems we hardly ever have a winter day that represents that average.

At least the crazy weather has afforded my daughter a few snow days to work on switching back her nights and days.

In other news, we have found a second guinea pig, aptly named Buddy:

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He is quite unlike our other guinea pig L’Orange in one way: he actually likes to snack on vegetables. I hope they do not develop a sibling rivalry with Buddy occupying the role of the child who better conforms parental exceptions whilst taunting his rival sibling in secret (btw, I was that sort of sibling when I was growing up).

It is too soon to tell how well the guinea pigs will get along. I’ve taken Buddy to the vet for assurance that he is not carrying infectious diseases, but I feel I should wait a bit longer to put them together in a large habitat. L’Orange just seems to be a mountain of a man compared to little Buddy. I did succumb to temptation and placed L’Orange in Buddy’s cage for a few minutes a couple days ago. What ensued was a comedy of errors wherein L’Orange literally dragged his ass around the cage while Buddy tried to make his elder a hobby horse. I suppose they can have another opportunity to sort out who’s the boss at a later date.

My vacation at home during the first week of the year was a misery of sciatic grade pain and frozen weather. I learned something important that week: spinal stenosis and sedentary living do not combine well. As much as I’d like to do so, it is a terrible idea for me to sit down and read for eight hours a day, no matter how engrossing the texts before me might be.

As for my back, it turns out that my L3/L4 disc is bulging to the point that it is impinging a root nerve that runs across my left hip, thigh, and knee. As a result, I have nerve pain along that pathway. I will be getting an epidural injection soon to help remedy this issue.

I had one of my periodic surgery follow-ups last week. It’s been ten months since my L4/L5 fusion, and my spine is fusing well:

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If only my lumbar degeneration had been confined to the disc that was removed. If so, I would be fairly trouble-free at this point with orthopedic pain.

p.s. Of all the Golden Age mysteries I’ve read recently, I highly recommend Agatha Christie’s The Pale Horse. I think that Christie’s body of work explores a lot of the anxiety of coping with a changing modern world. This theme is very apparent in this novel.

Frozen Again

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I am on vacation this week, and I have few plans other than drowning myself in Golden Age detective fiction. This morning I thought I’d advance toward the revelation of the culprit in Harriet Rutland’s superb Knock, Murder, Knock!, but I fell asleep not once but twice as I tried to read. These naps were of the dreamless variety, so even my subconscious mind didn’t help me in revealing further details of the plot.

I’ve been digging into these Golden Age (1920’s-1930’s) narratives not so much for their well-crafted plots but for period details. I’m not sure why I’m finding these fictional worlds so comforting. This was a time when meritocracy ran a distant second to lucky accidents of birth, and I have no wish whatsoever for the world to revert back to its socioeconomic terms (e.g., heaven forbid that dressing up for dinner become a trend again). Maybe in these pages I am finding some constants of the human condition amid the relatively baroque decor and fashion. No matter how many layers of clothing we must wear, the heart still covets and the will within may fail, yet we adapt and survive. In these fictional worlds, there is the hangman’s noose awaiting those who cannot remake themselves in the face of life’s defeats.

Onto the weather . . . another Alberta Clipper dropped a few inches of snow. Now that the snow has finished falling, the temperatures are drifting to zero degrees again. I tried shovelling some snow this morning, but early afternoon wind gusts undid my work. My husband ventured outside with the leaf blower to clear off some walking paths:

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The dogs next door were out just long to do their duty and bark at us:

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I think the hound on the right is asking me why I’m outside when my toilet, unlike his, is indoors.

Four Below

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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.

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