It was nine below zero this morning, the air stone still, the ground draped in the fleece of new snow that fell over the weekend. I milked hurriedly, anticipating an ache in my fingers that never came, and I recalled the old adage that dry = warm. It’s true, as old adages tend to be. My hands have been colder milking in a 40 degree rain.
Pip was haltered to an apple tree in a section of the orchard we’re slowly converting to pasture. We’ve installed two strands of barbed wire, using cedar posts I harvested from our stand, hauling them out of the woods two at at time, a shoulder for each. We set the posts in the early days of December, racing the frost, but it’s taken until now to finish running the wire. We can’t quite seem to get traction on all the projects needing our attention – siding the house, firewood, cleaning the barn, more posts for more fencing in the spring, saw logs, and so on – but I’m getting better at accepting the occasionally-floundering nature of this life. Or any life, I suppose.
I don’t have much else for you today, except to say that the comments in response to last week’s post reminded me yet again of how gracious and insightful my readers are. I consider it an honor that you visit here. Thank you.