Chapter Two: In Which I Whine

I know that if you live in the midwestern United States right now (blizzard conditions, minus-minus zero temps, snow drifts the size of skyscrapers) you're not likely to feel sorry for me, but when I awoke this morning the thermometer on my porch read 9 degrees. Yes, NINE. I live in Georgia, and for the past the week the temperatures here in the Blue Ridge Divide have been an unseasonable 65 degrees. I sat on the porch in the evenings (the very porch on which it was nine degrees this morning). I left the doors open in the afternoon. I was just getting used to living in the South. Nine degrees seems brutally unfair.

What's interesting is that, after donning two layers of clothing, thermal underwear and a polar suit for my morning walk (when you have dogs morning walks are not an option), I couldn't believe how warm my house had gotten while I was gone. It usually takes half a day to get the temperature in this old place up to a point that's suitable for human habitation when the mercury dips below twenty outside. I started stripping off sweaters, gloves, socks and outerwear, but it was hot inside. When I finally checked the indoor thermometer I discovered that it was, in fact, only fifty two degrees inside my house. Everything is relative, I suppose.

Now, close to ten o'clock at night and with three heat sources going, it's almosty sixty degrees in here and downright cozy. I guess the lesson of winter is that if you want to feel comfortable living in a drafty old barn, spend a little quality time out of doors when it's nine degrees.

On the other hand, I notice the mercury in the porch thermometer is dropping by the minute, and is already below twenty. Time to put another log on the fire and count my blessings. I guess.