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My column for The L.C. about the bad (and good) of houseguests. Read it here:  Download PDF

July 3, 2009

Hike the mossy trails. … Up the road for blueberry picking. … We live in a real-life, year- round coffee-table book up here and that means one thing: House guests.

 

March 4, 2011

Shut the door! It’s freezing outside. I haven’t been warm since November – or was it October? – when I first removed my fur-lined boots from the closet floor and brushed the dust off them. My house is cold, my car is cold, my bathrobe is cold. I’m cold. It’s been winter forever. Icicles hang from the eaves and a few of them touch the ground. Some won’t even budge from the force of my husband Mark’s thirty-pound sledgehammer.

When I come inside, I leave my jacket on, and sometimes my hat. I’ve been rotating through the same fleece sweatpants, the same thermal turtleneck, for months. Right now, I don’t care about lipstick or Italian high heels. Or trousers that fit. I want to be warm. We are living on top of a glacier. Often, I build a fire. I go out to the porch to collect wood from the pile, and the logs give me splinters which I can’t feel until my hands thaw. I forgot again to wear gloves. I should have waited for Mark to get back up from the studio.

The cold has made me impatient. Somewhere under the permafrost, there is my sage plant, my raised vegetable beds, and my orange Princess tulips that will experience some kind of sensory memory and reappear on an April morning.By then, I might have forgotten this frigid winter. By then, the chill that has commandeered my bloodstream may have vanished. Man, I’m cold. The dog is cold. He won’t go outside, and when he does, he comes in and licks the pads of his paws, which must sting. Then, he sits on my lap, or on Mark’s, and the heat from his fur seeps through to our thighs. I assume that we heat him up, too, and everybody’s content.

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