fucking February

When the 17th Century British philosopher Thomas Hobbes described the human experience as “nasty, brutish and short”, he likely said it in February. He spent much of his life in Paris and London, both near the 50th Parallel North, which bisects our island paradise, so he knew of which he spake. There’s eight and a half days left to meteorological winter, but it looks like it’s packing up to go. The 10 cm (4 inches) of snow on our farm is starting to yield to a robust rain. It’s supposed to be joined by a brisk wind soon, which hopefully will liberate our lengthy driveway.

After half a month of sub-freezing temperatures, we’ve been above that mark for a few days. I realize that British Columbia is the Bahamas of Canada, so, for a reality check may I refer you to my friend Blondi Blathers at Stubblejumpers Cafe in Saskatchewan?

I have been whiling away many an hour in front of our woodstove, watching the flames dance as if no one is watching. I’m reading various books, particularly Jitterbug Perfume by Tom Robbins, who died recently. Robbins, aside from being a superb satirist, was a local lad, a longtime resident of the Seattle area. This particular corner of the Pacific Northwest has also given the world Jimi Hendrix, Chris Pratt, Kurt Cobain, David Lynch, Frank Herbert, Bing Crosby, Quincy Jones and The Far Side‘s Gary Larson.

(And, Full Disclosure: Bill Gates, Jeff Bezos and Kenny G.).

I can’t resist an occasional peak at the news below the 49th Parallel, hoping that warmer weather will fuel robust protests. There are glimmers of hope. Two of the most conservative GOP senators, John Kennedy of Louisiana and Roger Wicker of Mississippi, have challenged Trump’s glowing praise of Putin. Some of the mass federal firings were so reckless that Aging Orange had to rehire them. And a Clash-of-the-Titan-Egos between him and Elon Musk is inevitable. Hopefully.