Things have been quiet over here. I have not had much to say. There haven't been too many projects, thoughts, or happenings. Everyone hibernates a little in winter. Mine hasn't been so much the cozy cuddles as the scrunch on the couch, pleading for it all to be over.
Hell is not hot. Hell is cold and much more frightening. Picture Laura spending months twisting straw into burnable "logs" so the whole family doesn't freeze to death in Laura Ingalls Wilder's The Long Winter. A Willa Cather novel, with the depictions of the endless, barren winter landscape under a crushing sky is more terrifying than a Stephen King book. And, ugh, Ethan Frome. Winter can lead people to do crazy things like eat pickles and donuts for dinner and fall in love with their cousins.
As Ma constantly turned the coffee grinder to make rye flour so the Ingalls family could eat during that long winter, I'm sure she repeated the same thing that I have been telling myself every day: Damn you, Charles Ingalls.
Spring will come.