The thermometer outside our kitchen window hovered halfway between 0 and 10 this morning.
Cozy warm, Rudy (cat) and I felt bad as John (husband) crunched across our backyard to set out feeders and suet for waiting woodpeckers (downy, red belly, hairy), nuthatches (white and red-breasted), white-throated sparrows, cardinals, and the rest.
In anticipation of the morning’s weather, right before lights out last night I picked up the sole book permanently perched on my bed stand – E.B. White’s “One Man’s Meat” – to read “Cold Weather”. White lived on a seaside farm in North Brooklin, Maine not far from Acadia National Park. In January, 1943 he wrote:
“For about a month now we’ve had solid firm cold—firm business-like cold that stalked in and took charge of the countryside … Clean, hard, purposeful cold, unyielding and unremitting. Some days have been clear and cold, others stormy and cold. We have had cold with snow and cold without snow, windy cold and quiet cold, rough cold and indulgent peace-loving cold. But always cold.”
In the piece White says there’s a “fraternity of the cold” to which he’s glad to belong.