Braving the Cold

Hubs texted to complain about the cold in Central Texas yesterday. I texted back my local temps and we launched an enjoyable tease stream about "Tropikids." That would be our couple-code for people who have lived their entire lives in the tropics and sub-tropics. Hubs is pridefully one, as were his parents and their parents, as are my sons and grandchildren. What's a family without a black sheep? Psych debates rage over the impact of calling the proverbial black sheep, "Mom." Is the world ready for a Prodigal Mom?

The playful exchange put a bit of iron in my spine. In the bright sun of mid-afternoon, I braved the 30 degree temps (-1C) and went out to tackle a rock bed which was blocking the space I need to work the compost pile. I may be black sheep enough to have nostalgic memories of snow country, but that nostalgia has had decades to color the realities. My work-gloved fingers were icy by the time I got the vegetation cut back far enough to liberate and load the rocks which held the bed. I left the heavy rock load in the gorilla cart and headed back to the great indoors to warm my fingers.

The gorilla cart remains heavily laden enough to stress its pneumatic tires. It can probably handle the load indefinitely, but the need to finish the job nags me this morning, as usual. Whatever the circumstances, unfinished jobs rattle me. I wonder, too, if I am missing some important details about caring for pneumatic tires in freezing weather. I wasnae old enough to be responsible for tires when I lived in snow country.

There has been no further progress on the aeroponics lab. The dump truck, back hoe and piled remnants of the old building remain where they were abandoned last week with no further communication from the contractors. Still, my impatient toe taps, but bracing myself for the small task of unloading a cartful of rocks (about 10 minutes) might have inserted a few new overtones to the impatient rhythm of my toe. Maybe. We see. . .