Seasonal Fuzziness

Warm until February; snow and sleet in March: "Seasonal fuzziness" is what it's called by a Missouri Department of Conservation representative whom I heard speak about climate change (he said that he would not say "global warming" because that phrase was too  politicized). He said weather is drifting away from the calendar and our expectations because of man-made climate change. Yes, the weather is more and more confused; it's not a collective hallucination. Numerous outdoor events scheduled for March, when I'm often rhapsodizing about crocuses, have been snowed out, including a Mardi Gras dog parade ("Mardi Growl" -- everyone goes) in Eureka, and my planned jaunt to the back roads of  southern Illinois, inaccessible after a 7-inch snowfall. They rescheduled those events for April. Tonight it will be 0 degrees. This Saturday it'll be 52 degrees. LaBarque Creek (left), always pretty, looking like a poem, freezes and heats like a fever line.

Cloudburst

On an August afternoon, when it'd been over 90 degrees every day for a solid month, and was pushing 100, it rained for a solid fifteen minutes, then it rained for another fifteen minutes, hard, with the sun shining. Dodging the huge raindrops I ran outside seeking a rainbow, but didn't see any. But from my porch, where I and the camera could stay dry, I saw my birdbath and bird feeder bathed in sun and rain.

Vitamin C and Propane

Nobody will tell you the price of propane. Prices per gallon are so high that if you ask the fuel company they won't tell you. Even the deliverymen won't say. They only ask you what dollar amount you want. When they're gone, you divide it by the gallons you got. There's a $100 surcharge if you call them after you've let the gauge sink below 10 percent -- an emergency.

I am fond of my blimp-shaped silver propane tank, and fed it $600 worth last May. Sixty percent was gone by Christmas. Electric power, if I play it right, can perhaps get the remaining gas to last until March; mid-March if I'm frugal and use an electric cooking ring rather than the stove. It's so old and crusty I feel like an old Alaskan prospector -- like Sam McGee in that Robert Service poem.

Please notice that I don't whine about heating the house. Native Missourians have one bizarre quirk: They think they deserve to go barefoot in the house in January, and if that means 80 degrees, they crank it up. We from the frozen north grudgingly raise the temp to 55, put on two pairs of socks, leg-warmers, shoes, a hat, fingerless gloves, a down vest over two layers of sweats, and tie a fleece bathrobe over everything; then close off three rooms and live in two. I look like a bag lady -- but who's looking? I'm saving money and the planet!