The Reckoning

I know that there are some out there that partied hard on New Year's Eve. And that some of you may still be paying the price. For you who may still feel the pounding between your ears and the spin cycle at work in your stomach, I have a bit of advice from Robert W. Service:

THE RECKONING


It's fine to have a blow-out in a fancy restaurant,
With terrapin and canvas-back and all the wine you want;
To enjoy the flowers and music, watch the pretty women pass,
Smoke a choice cigar, and sip the wealthy water in your glass;
It's bully in a high-toned joint to eat and drink your fill,
But it's quite another matter when you

Pay the bill.

It's great to go out every night on fun or pleasure bent,
To wear your glad rags always, and to never save a cent;
To drift along regardless, have a good time every trip;
To hit the high spots sometimes, and to let your chances slip;
To know you're acting foolish, yet to go on fooling still,
Till Nature calls a show-down, and you

Pay the bill.

Time has got a little bill--get wise while yet you may,
For the debit side's increasing in a most alarming way;
The things you had no right to do, the things you should have done,
They're all put down: it's up to you to pay for every one.
So eat, drink, and be merry, have a good time if you will,
But God help you when the time comes, and you

Foot the bill.

Not bad advice for daily living either.

Cold as a well digger's....

Y'all can finish the title to your personal preference depending 'pon how deep the water in the well is.

The high today at the Aerie was 31 degrees. Granted that was just minutes after midnight and it has been falling ever since then. Okay, it did go up a degree during the one hour the sun managed to peek through the clouds this afternoon. It went from 21 up to 22 degrees at that time. At sundown (4:30 PM), however, it slipped slightly below 20 degrees and at 6 PM it was down to just 17.1 degrees. And now, at 8:30 PM it's dropped to 13 degrees. Mmmm, 13, unlucky.

Add the strong winds out of the northwest (the reason for the freakin' cold air being here in the first place) that are keeping the chimes hammering out a lively tune, and the windchill is probably approaching 0 degrees. We got "decorative" snow showers throughout the day, too, as the moisture of the Great Lakes got swept south and east by the howling winds.

Now, I know some of you in Alaska, Frostbite Falls, or the Yukon Territory might be thinking that it's spring like at 17 degrees (or even 0 degrees). Well, good for you. I'm a bit ursine in nature and want to hibernate about now. Wake me up when the Ides of March arrive.

It's going to get colder over the next few days if the weather quacks are correct. The wind will die back--a bit--but the lows will sink down to close to 10 degrees tonight and 15 degrees Friday night before they get back to the 20s. Only a 30% chance of snow showers in the 10-day forecast so that's a blessing unless you're a skier. (Although the 30% chance occurs on 7 of the 10 days, so, do ya feel lucky, punk?)

******

I frittered away the day doing nothing but keeping warm and a little reading. I didn't see any new madness on the internet that I wanted to comment/rant about today despite visiting many a blog/news site, so I've not posted a thing except the story about coywolves in New England.

Maybe tomorrow there will be some new apocalyptic happening or political buffoonery that warrants comment.

Maybe tomorrow I'll reenter the workshop and get the next wooden quilted square put together.

Maybe tomorrow my pulse rate will soar up to, oh, 55 beats per minute and I'll have energy to spare.

Tomorrow...

I'll hitch up the dogs to-morrow,
And mush down the trail to Bill.
It's so long dark, and I'm lonesome -
I'll just lay down on the bed;
To-morrow I'll go. . .to-morrow. .

Ha! Good thing I've only got three cats in the house.

A little poetry on a cold, cold day.

Oh, not any of mine. I've not the skill to twine words together in rhythm and rhyme. No, this comes from the pen of Robert W. Service. It's the story of a man considered by his "betters" a failure. Yet which is in touch with his soul more? Which understands the world more? Which has lead an more enjoyable life?

The Rhyme of the Remittance Man

There's a four-pronged buck a-swinging in the shadow of my cabin,
And it roamed the velvet valley till to-day;
But I tracked it by the river, and I trailed it in the cover,
And I killed it on the mountain miles away.
Now I've had my lazy supper, and the level sun is gleaming
On the water where the silver salmon play;
And I light my little corn-cob, and I linger, softly dreaming,
In the twilight, of a land that's far away.

Far away, so faint and far, is flaming London, fevered Paris,
That I fancy I have gained another star;
Far away the din and hurry, far away the sin and worry,
Far away -- God knows they cannot be too far.
Gilded galley-slaves of Mammon -- how my purse-proud brothers taunt me!
I might have been as well-to-do as they
Had I clutched like them my chances, learned their wisdom, crushed my fancies,
Starved my soul and gone to business every day.

Well, the cherry bends with blossom and the vivid grass is springing,
And the star-like lily nestles in the green;
And the frogs their joys are singing, and my heart in tune is ringing,
And it doesn't matter what I might have been.
While above the scented pine-gloom, piling heights of golden glory,
The sun-god paints his canvas in the west,
I can couch me deep in clover, I can listen to the story
Of the lazy, lapping water -- it is best.

While the trout leaps in the river, and the blue grouse thrills the cover,
And the frozen snow betrays the panther's track,
And the robin greets the dayspring with the rapture of a lover,
I am happy, and I'll nevermore go back.
For I know I'd just be longing for the little old log cabin,
With the morning-glory clinging to the door,
Till I loathed the city places, cursed the care on all the faces,
Turned my back on lazar London evermore.

So send me far from Lombard Street, and write me down a failure;
Put a little in my purse and leave me free.
Say: "He turned from Fortune's offering to follow up a pale lure,
He is one of us no longer -- let him be."
I am one of you no longer; by the trails my feet have broken,
The dizzy peaks I've scaled, the camp-fire's glow;
By the lonely seas I've sailed in -- yea, the final word is spoken,
I am signed and sealed to nature. Be it so.

All the remittance man asks is to be left alone to enjoy his meager fare and the peace of nature's bounty.

Happy Birthday!

To Robert W. Service. Born this day in 1874.

Jean Shepherd reads Poems of Robert W. Service.

(Yeah, it's the guy who wrote "Christmas Story" but he did a heck of a lot more than that during his years on the radio.)