Woke up this morning to temperatures that would not rise to see minus 1, Fahrenheit.

The bed was warm but I couldn’t stay in bed forever. My husband, after scanning the weather reports, informed me that it is warmer in Greenland, Iceland, Siberia and Antarctica. Granted, it is summer in Antarctica, but, really . . .

The furniture is cold till I sit for awhile and release some body heat into the cushions. Throws cover me from top to bottom. I need gloves to read.

Only the cat is warm. He sleeps on the heat register and blocks the heat from the wood stove in the basement from rising any farther than his fur. It’s his job and he takes it seriously.

It will be like this for at least a week.

Readers are prepared for this eventuality. It is the same eventuality as being laid up with a cold, as I am right now. And, following so closely on the heels of Christmas, we must certainly have gotten new stockpiles of books to keep us going. I received two gift certificates for my e-reader, a book of cat cartoons and cat short stories from the New Yorker, a Dorothy Sayers Lord Peter mystery in French, and, from the library, A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles. That should be enough for now, but if the weather cold and the viral cold continue then, by gum, I’ll have to dip into an older pile of books.

Perish the thought that I should write something while waiting for my brain to warm up. My blood has become sluggish, the synapses in my brain have gone on holiday. I’ve become like molasses in January before January. Dulled and stupefied by internal and external attacks on my well-being I have hunkered down to await warmer muses.

It is possible that a thought worthy of being written down will actually worm its way into my mind during this period of hunkering. I wouldn’t say nay if I had one, I wouldn’t resist it, but I haven’t much hope. Those mercurial Muses enjoy more temperate environments, not fevered minds in frozen bodies.

It is the practice in Iceland to give books on Christmas Eve and then spend Christmas day reading. It’s not a bad idea.

But then it is warmer in Iceland than it is here.

Warm wishes for a Happy New Year to all.

Happy reading and productive writing.

About Eleanor Ingbretson

Native New Yorker. Transplanted to New Hampshire years ago, but still considered a flatlander by the neighbors. Writer of fantasy and mystery and whatever else takes my fancy.

Posted on December 28, 2017, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

  1. Five books for Christmas! Lucky you. I got two, and one of them I had to buy myself.
    Here’s my haul — what did all the other readers get?

    1) Falstaff, by Alan Bloom. A study of one of Shakespeare’s most complex characters, written by a great humanist.

    2) Encounters with Remarkable Manuscripts, by Christopher de Hamel. de Hamel, librarian of Corpus Christi college and an expert on medieval manuscripts, gives us essays on 12 famous manuscripts and accounts of his visits to see them.


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