a handful of mid-winter Sundays
I woke up today looking at a uniformly gray sky. A breeze from the north
nudged smoke from the chimney past the window. Ollie strongly suggested
that he be fed, bending his usual “meow” into an urgent “now”. I left our
warm bed and my warm wife, hoping she could sleep well into daylight.
Ollie and Slinkee trailed me down the stairs. Roameo had opted to stay
near the woodstove through the night, but was already up and dressed
for breakfast. I fed the troops then made my usual morning meal,
cereal topped with flax and soyogurt, soaked in vanilla fortified soy
beverage. I was about to go with Maple Nut Flavour Oatmeal Crisp,
but got adventurous and turned the bilingual box around to the
French side for Saveur Erable et Nois Avoine Croquante.
Much more sophisticated. Very Continental, this breakfast. And even
though it’s Sunday, I added a handful of dark chocolate chips — our
finest, funnest health food.
I divide seasons into thirds. This is the first Sunday of mid-winter.
Even though there’s only a handful of them, they used to be my most
dreaded days when I was living in places where I didn’t want to live.
They were too quiet and I couldn’t tolerate too much self-reflection.
It’s different now, living with the perfect partner on ground I hallow.
Back in those days, I would have regarded the rain that’s now falling
as an accent mark over my melancholy. Now I welcome it as vital
to the circle of life.
I could wax on a tad, but I have to go prepare for the premier event
of mid-winter Sundays, the NFC and AFC championship games. They
determine the participants of the Super Bowl. It’s the best Sunday in
football. I say the Steelers’ experience outlasts the Jets’ talent, and
that Chicago falls to Green Bay as Aaron Rodgers solidifies his legend
to help Packer fans forget Brett Favre’s earnest attempts to ruin his.
So please enjoy the rest of your day and don’t worry about me. I
promise to pace myself and drink plenty of fluids.
