It's cold.

How cold is it, Pilly?

Well, I'll tell you.  It's cold enough that I seriously considered sinning in a big way just so I could be sure of going somewhere very warm after I'm dead.

But I scrapped the idea because, really, what if the Eskimos are right and Hell is just endless frozen tundra with no igloo?   And frankly, I already live there, so what would be the point of dying?  At least in Wisconsin, spring does come eventually.

I would just like my husband to know that calling me every ten minutes to inquire whether I am a popsicle yet is not really useful.  I believe the pioneers only survived the winters on the prairie because there were no phones.  One too many phone calls inquiring about how they were doing would have eventually led some settler to take an ax and wipe out the whole colony and the United States would all be east of the Mississippi, today.

This house leaves a lot to be desired in the way of comfort.  On the up side, I cannot die of carbon monoxide poisoning because it's so drafty you can't keep a candle lit in the living room on a breezy day.  On the down side, you risk frostbite every time you get near a window.

Well, that's life,  you know.  As Almanzo Wilder was wont to say, it all evens out in the end.  The rich man gets his ice in the summer, but the poor man gets his in the winter, so it's all good, really.

There are some decided advantages to a cold house.  For instance, if you forget to put the leftovers away they don't spoil.  You have to thaw them in the microwave to eat them, but still. 

I think I have figured out why the pioneers only bathed once in a winter.  As the ice formed on top of the washtub they were sitting in they had to hurry in order not to be trapped til spring, and once of that was probably enough for them.

I'm still working out how they managed not to have to go to the outhouse until spring.   Whiskey may have been involved.  I read this really great diary kept by one of the lesser known Ingalls brothers who stayed in  Wisconsin and apparently never did anything notable.

I'm not sure why he felt the need to keep a journal.  Every day it's too cold to go anywhere, he gets lonesome for the neighbors, he eats the same thing once a day, occasionally he gets out to do some lumber jacking, once during a warm spell when it was only about forty below he managed to get to the neighbors cabin and have some coffee.  He mentions that he told the guy's wife he guessed he'd have to get married.

She should have started sleeping with the ax next to her, there were decided overtones of, "If your husband were to fall through the ice, maybe I could move in."

Apparently he never went that far, however, as for the rest of the winter he does nothing but complain about his loneliness and have the occasional pancake.

I used to wonder how Ma Ingalls managed not to kill Charles, as every time she got decent furniture and a garden planted he decided to push on further west,  Now I think maybe she was hoping it was warmer farther away.  This is the man that burned hay to keep warm one whole winter in South Dakota.  I think Jimmy might be one of his descendants.

So, anyway, here I am once again, trying to stay warm in one more fabulous antique of a house.

At least no one has asked me to plant a garden.