40 is the new 50

Originally, I had wanted to post last night when the autumn winds started blowing here and forced me to deal with a barn emergency. Not an emergency in the sense that the barn collapsed and Gunnar--who lives out there--went up in a funnel cloud like Toto from Kansas, but a real pain-in-the-butt architectural issue.

For those of you who don't know me very well, I didn't go to school to be an architect.  I went to school to be a respiratory therapist, and then I went to school for a non-descript Interdisciplinary Studies (Humanities) degree which will hopefully serve a multitude of professional purposes.  Since I didn't have to perform an emergency tracheotomy on Gunnar, or read him a story about Plato, I am operating on zero experience here.

My husband gives me way too much credit and thinks I can do anything I want to do, but, he will usually step in if what I want done involves lifting heavy-ish objects, changing light bulbs, or fixing anything on more than one wheel.  (I don't have a unicycle--yet).

So, when he had to work late yesterday, I was forced to deal with the farm issues myself. There were two issues: the wood burner fire had gone out, and Gunnar's metal roof had blown completely off. Heat and safety are concerns and I was just as concerned to freeze my tail off, as I was that Gunnar's tail might try to go over his kennel wall to freedom.



Gunnar and I assessing the kennel roof damage

I only had a couple of hours before Bill got home, but it was already dark outside, around forty degrees, and the winds had been gusting all day--which they are still doing today. The wood burner fire would not have been an issue had I been able to find a match, a lighter, or a grenade. This property came literally almost fully furnished in the house, garage, barn, and workshop. Bill and I have garden tools and barn supplies that we never would have been able to stock up on right away, when we moved in. I am so grateful for this. It has made life easier, and makes this feel like a fully functioning home--that is a new concept!

But, since Mr. H doesn't smoke anymore (thank God) and the lighter for the grill is out of fluid, I could only find a match which wouldn't ignite. Every piece of tinder was soaked from the torrential rains, so I wasn't about to go Native and try to rub two sticks together to start the fire. Screw that--let the propane and electricity kick in. What am I, Amish?

Wood burner crisis solved, I got some work gloves on-- and of course rain boots-- and moved all of the metal scraps scattered on the grass from what was left of Gunnar's roof, out of my way. I then went into the barn and found some very sturdy rope and started to weave the two remaining tarps over the dog kennel into a plausible cover for the poor boy. This roof was initially made by Seneca and Bill, two much more capable humans than I when it comes to barn--or any kind of--chores.

Crisis averted, Bill came home and "tweaked" both projects I had tackled and we soon had heat in the burner. Gunnar had two very nice tarps which made up a roof, perfectly woven in place with a rope-through-grommet action; but, now I'm wondering if Bill has watched that skin coat scene from "Silence of the Lambs" one too many times?

Let's fast forward to this morning:
It was twenty degrees and in a matter of two days my climate has changed drastically, requiring the insulated bib overalls and a warmer jacket. I guess that is the one great thing about living in the Midwest: there is a need for four distinct wardrobes, not just two--hot and less hot. There is a need for a set of clothing for all four seasons and I have already run the gamut of all of them in a span of two months.

I've learned something about the weather though: twenty to forty degrees with no wind is essentially the same, and fifty degrees with any significant wind can feel like twenty! The most accurate way to determine what to wear outside to walk Gunnar or do chores is dancing around on the back patio in pajamas to get the full effect of the current atmosphere. It isn't pretty, pleasant, or fun, but this isn't Arizona: you can't just wake up each morning and know it will be between eighty and one hundred degrees with sun or partial sun.  As for the poor hunters who intermittently stay in the cabin behind us-- don't look in the direction of my backyard at 6 a.m. and you'll be spared the weather ritual!



Wulf getting ready for snowpants season




Yeah, I wore my snowpants one morning to walk Gunnar.

Note the frozen expression on my face-- no pun intended.