Cabin fever

Time to admit it. Wisconsin winter is here. Still lacking much of the expected snow, but the thermometer tells a cold story of single digit temperatures overnight, with winds and biting wind chill temperatures. This is, after all, Wisconsin.

The full moon on the light covering of snow creates a bright night. In a neighborhood without street lights and with all the Christmas lights gone, the full moon is a welcome ally for a very cold night.

At this time of the year, our bed and master shower became more comforting than ever, offering a warmth that cuts throw even a brisk to howling wind outside. Nonetheless, our downsized home seems bit claustrophobic, after almost twenty-five years in our three finished stories home in Maryland. Our Harrison home is quite functional and most appropriate for this new chapter in life, yet the joy that came from a more spacious home still lingers in my mind, even when I recall the creaking siding on those nights when the northeaster pounded ceaselessly on the walls, or when -- as it did twenty-five years ago this week -- those winds drove six-foot drifts out of three feet of snow. This quarter century old event was also the event that immediately preceded the birth of first daughter Jane. Back then, we had real worries that we'd be unable to reach the hospital, less than a mile away, sitting high atop a good-sized hill in north Baltimore.

I call what I experience now, "cabin fever." Exacerbated by the pandemic fear and restrictions, the house seems even smaller and confining than it already was in those sunnier, warmer days of spring, summer and fall. An hour's walk each day is my only real exposure to the elements. I even wait until I get into the car before opening the garage, and often I shut that same garage door before ai get out of my car on my return. It reminds me of mentor Jack Ivancevich describing life in Houston in the summer, only there it was oppressive heat and humidity that kept people indoors, in the cars, and from going outside.