The questionable weather continues, with no end in sight. Last night was the worst. I laid on our now worn out futon and listened to the ongoing roar, occasionally yanking on the blankets that Pete had pulled off me, in his desire to stay warm. It felt like I was winter camping. I ought to have gotten up and thrown a few more logs on the dying fire, but I couldn’t face the prospect of being one with the elements.

This morning Pete and I went for yet another walk in the woods, taking some of our furry animal companions with. All except me were energized by the blowsy winds. I trudged along and observed the outer landscape from the interior of my Refrigerware suit. I had my hood pulled up over my head. The sides obscured my vision, making me feel like I was a spectator rather than a participant in what can only be described as nasty winter weather.

The near inhospitable landscape got me to thinking some about Siberia, and those who were imprisoned in the Gulags, mere shacks with snow and wind blowing in the cracks. Unlike us, those who were sequestered there did not have Mountain Hardware hats, Refrigerware suits, Northface gloves, or Steiger Mukluks. They instead wore no-name threadbare jackets, torn pants, and shoes with worn out soles. Some attempted to escape (and I’m sure) froze to death. Oh yeah, I thought, how lucky we are to have the brand spanking new Goose Creek Correctional Facility just a stone’s throw from our town. Lucky, lucky us. It’s gotta be toasty in there.

And the outside walls are made of cinderblock, so the interior isn’t at all drafty.

My attitude improved a bit as my blood started circulating. Pete and I stopped several times, and observed the seemingly always changing landscape. He noted that the water was flowing under the ice that had formed on a nearby creek. And he also alerted me to the fact that the trees are creaking. The latter made me a bit nervous. Like everyone else, I was born to die, but don’t want to get taken out by a birch tree—at least not until after the holidays.

Those reading this might rightly presume that I’m due for a vacation. I heartily agree. Yes, I have been dreaming about going someplace warm and windless. Cuba keeps coming back to mind. I could brush up on my Spanish and maybe join a revolution. Castro’s on his way out, so they’re about due for change. I could get behind a socialist party because yes, I believe that what’s good for one is good for all. Floridated water, hot lunch programs, free medical care—every citizen worldwide deserves all this and more. Gotta start somewhere, and Cuba is as good a place as any. Viva la revolution.

If I was to be captured, I’d probably end up in Guantanamo Bay, in the woman’s wing. This would not be the best place in the world in which to spend one’s remaining days, but it’s far better than being incarcerated in a Gulag in Siberia.

Next: 345. 11/20/12: Yoga and Breathing