Spoiled

Coming out of the fog of 4 months of busy writing, I see pink, red and white dogwoods, redbuds, apple blossoms, and a new generation of tent caterpillars. Sometimes I think they've one-upped us, living in tents. How practical and inexpensive! A few humans are as smart, those who've discovered yurts. I'd bet my Mac PowerBook would work very well in a yurt. Our woodstove might become a hero instead of the villain in this house for which it's proved to be under-sized.

Not that we've had much need for our woodstove this winter. Our woodpile was small from the beginning, so I couldn't complain too much about frost-free mornings. About the time I began splitting wood every two or three days, our ancient Old Milwaukee furnace that occupies half of a basement room conked out. We filled the oil tank, expecting the old monster to start up again, but it didn't. Karen quickly ordered a couple infrared heaters, then all of a sudden summer arrived. Now we wonder if the heaters would keep us warm on ten degree nights, not having had a chance to find out.

Fools we are. Not too many generations ago, our foreparents got along just fine under blankets on ten degree nights. Couldn't we? We might find comfort seeing our breath with the sunrise. But no, that's for the poor and the hungry. The rest of us are spoiled brats.

"Let's just say spoiled," says Virginia.

That's right. I drew looks once when I mentioned we'd turned our thermostat up to 62. I felt like a brat.