"TV saying this morning the wind chill temp was (or will be) -53C near you.
That's just cruel."Yes, my dear Peter, that is truly just cruel.
I went out this morning to feed the critters, my only morning chore today, Tony and I having done as much as we can the past couple of days so as to take a day off... in as much as we ever truly take one.
I thought as we would be back inside within half an hour, my jeans, hat, scarf and sheepskin would be sufficient to keep me warm.
What I neglected was long underwear.
Let me tell you what -39 feels like in a pair of skinny legged jeans.
At first, though you realize your mistake quickly, you think "Bah, just a few minutes in the cold."
But by the time I reached the third pen, I felt as though I were wading pantless though a vast field of Devil's Club, a beautiful broad leaf plant that harbours thousands of tiny stinging needles on every curve.
If you have ever encountered this plant, much like stinging nettle, you can imagine that you would want to get out of said field quickly. But with two more pens and the barn to get back to, I was smack dab in the centre, and no where to go but forward.
While my sheepskin did keep my core warm, my legs were in agony by the time I reached the aforementioned barn.
A mistake I will not repeat anytime soon.
But while the cruel fingers of winter sliced at my legs, the sky in brazen contrast to that misery was a brilliant clear blue, as if glorying in the icy tentacles this December has wrought, and daring me to linger and soak in that beauty. The fact it was so brightly blue while it was so still early in the morning seemed more a poke in the nose than any gift of nature. It only comes at the cost of extreme cold, that particular hue.
Clear skies, as any Albertan will tell you, or for that matter any prairie province, means especially cold weather, no protective cloud covering to hold down whatever warmth the jet stream or muggy pollutive haze the nearby cities might provide.
And as clear as that, sounds travel more clearly, the the traffic from the Parkland Highway just a kilometre away seemed to crack as clear as gunshots, tires crunching and Doppler effects unmuffled even by the wind drifted mounds of snow.
Inside the barn, after feeding a wayward cria who just refuses to grow up and tending to the two older ladies, one of whom has been on death's door for months now (though no one thought to tell her, so she keeps plodding along as if she actually has red blood cells in her shriveled arteries), I grit my teeth for the short walk back to the warmth of the house, knowing full well that while my legs have quit stinging, they will take only seconds to begin again when I emerge.
Grinning the grin of a fool that knows her folly, I nip quickly back into the house, where Tony awaits, having finished his own chores just minutes earlier, coffee ready for me, steaming and rich with the full fat cream I adore, and served, I must add, in the one of the splendid mugs Dale gave us for the wedding.
"No long underwear?!" he exclaims as I explain my rueful smile. "My God. You are one tough chick."
(Translation: you nutty broad.)
It is a lovely day to be inside.
