The last of the Christmas parties in the books. I hung up my tweed coat for the final time. That’s it. From December 1 to January 4. The first at Buchanan Hall, Virginia Steeplechase Association, sparsely attended. The last at Buchanan Hall, the Piedmont Hunt 12th Night, packed house. That made 16, I think.
I check my weight first thing. 165. Not bad after 35 days of Christmas. It’ll come off quickly.
Sunday barn chores. Solo.
I set out my clothes in a stack last night. Layers. Lots of layers. Under Armour HeatGear compression shorts cling close, an extra skin. Thermal long underwear. Wool-blend wicking socks, the last layer, so my feet won’t sweat. That’s key. Tan Carhartt work pants over top. Under Armour T-shirt, long, tucks perfectly secure, no gaps, another key. Two layers of long-sleeve shirts, one, the black North Face one, must be 25 years old. I ran the New York City Marathon in that shirt. 1997. SOTA vest with a dying zipper. Two quilted down jackets. Navy ski hat.
I trundle down to the three-stall barn. Nothing like the old one, but solid and reliable. The red ribbon of the Christmas wreath wiggles and wags in the early-morning wind. I need to take that down at some point.
Frozen hose. Frozen snaps. Eli’s water bucket frozen. The black quilted gloves feeling thinner with every chore. The tips of my fingers start to numb, slowly, steadily, creeping closer to the knuckles. I think of Jack London. To Build a Fire.
Snow expected to start tonight. Six to 12 inches. Blade on the tractor, snow stakes along the driveway. I need to warm up the truck and trailer and move it closer to the barn. I need to move the Gator to the shed. I need to find the snow shovel. Any rock salt? Doubtful. That’s on my mind as I tick off the morning chores.
Apse, Kiss, EP and Blue. Quiet on a wintry morning. Weeping, tired eyes. Do they know the snow is coming? It sure seems that way. My meteorologists.
