March 21, 2013 – Thursday

14 degrees/cloudy/snow showers/calm winds

Pentoga Road

I lay in bed earlier, pondering how writing each morning is similar to the process of putting on my clothes. I’ve gotten dressed in the exact order, day after day, year after year, since I was a small boy: under things, t-shirt, shirt, pants, and socks. It hasn’t varied.

The order of my early morning activities also hasn’t varied: make coffee, bathroom duties, correspondence, and write the log. Not to do so is like driving with one tire lacking a few pounds of air. One knows something’s not right, but he can’t quite put a finger on it. 

Evidently old habits also die hard with those who have read this posting day after day, year after year, and for some, decade after decade, if one includes those who read my weekly newspaper column beginning back in the early 1980’s. Most seem to have a particular time they fit the log into their schedule and say if it’s absent, feel as though something’s not quite right.

I’ve wondered why I write and why it's read.

It’s certainly not because my life is all that exciting. It’s quite average. I’m not that good of an author and have no illusions of being one. If I were, Sargie and I would be living off the literary fat of my written musings.

My good friend, Pat, the Reverend Dr. Sheahan, thinks people read because of a Truman Story-type fascination; an ongoing soap opera that stretches over an adult lifetime.  

I believe there are those who are like myself, creatures of habit. I’d be willing to bet they put their clothes on each day in the exact same order.

Why do I write? I have another friend who says writing for me is like a trip to the psychiatrist. Whether I actually record every deep thought isn’t important, but rather while preparing to publish what I want the reader to know of my daily life, I am forced to think about each nook and cranny.

Other than a very few close friends and immediate family, I go out of my way to avoid people. Even one in my closest circle, Yooper Brother Mark, must wonder what I do out here all day by myself. I’m bad about calling and sometimes write a quick email to let him know I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth. There’s that part of me that is an intense loner and other than Sargie and my very very closest friends who I call my brothers, I tend to keep an invisible wall between others and me.

Yet I record my previous day’s life each morning and publish it for the world to see, complete with pictures and captions.  Why?

And so I get up every morning and put on my clothes in the same order, day in and day out, and after, I write, even if it’s about uneventful happenings that barely took place. All I’m certain of is that writing the log puts a period at the end of yesterday’s chapter and celebrates the beginning of today’s with a capital letter.

Whew, I wonder what was in that bowl of ice cream last night to cause me to wake up thinking these deep thoughts? Since returning home from Andy and Mollie’s, I’ve been on a diet and last evening was my reward for the week. I treated myself to a “sensible” bowl of ice cream, complete with chocolate sauce. “Sensible” sucks, but it’s better than none at all. Occasionally we have to feed the junk food beast just enough to keep him happy.

Through a combination of walking and eating healthy, I’ve managed to shed seven pounds… so far. If I have any hope of ever hiking the Appalachian Trail, I need to keep lean, mean, trim, and somewhat in shape. And if I never hike it? At least I’m living a healthy lifestyle. My goal for this spring is to get to 185 lbs and stay there. I’ve got a ways to go.

One of these days I’ll publish the diatribe I wrote earlier this winter comparing the weight a college freshman gains; i.e., the Freshman Fifteen, to that a new retiree accumulates during his first year of unfettered forage; i.e. the Terrible Ten. There are remarkable similarities.

Wednesday was another day of blowing snow and temperatures that never rose out of the teens. I went to the barn to work on the greenhouse and exited a few minutes later. Even with the door closed, the inside thermometer registered 19 degrees and it was simply too cold to work without gloves.

I didn’t go for a walk either. Call me old or call me lazy, but the thought of bundling up and walking for five miles in a thirty mile-an-hour wind didn’t appeal to me.

So I did what any sane person might. I stayed by the stove occasionally filling it with wood, read a few assignments, listened to music, and in the afternoon, took the mandatory Grandpa nap.

Sargie arrived home fairly early last night after visiting Mr. Milligan at the VA Hospital. Knowing she didn’t have to work today made her a very happy girl. I’m happy for her. She puts in some very long hours.

I’m going to go for my walk as soon as this is uploaded. Though the temperatures remain cold, the winds have subsided. According the local meteorologist, our temperatures are running anywhere from ten to fifteen degrees below normal and the snow presently on the ground makes this the third snowiest March on record. This global warming is a bugger.

So with that in mind, it’s time to strap on the hiking boots and step out the door. A man’s work is never done.

So are the tales from Pentoga Road…