Instead, I'd like to point out that I've never lived in a place before this one with so much color variation in its leaves. Right outside my office door is a three-story staircase surrounded by a small grove of some kind of tree whose leaves are bright yellow and whose bark turns zen-garden black when it's wet. On an otherwise gray, cloudy day, this kind of contrast is hard to come by, and it's nice to stand there for a moment in the soaking cold and let your eyes feel warm, even if everything else is cold.
More good things:
Old Navy is selling hooded cashmere sweaters for $30, so I can cover myself in kitten-soft green for relatively cheap.
Pants' term of service pay has gone steadily up, and we can finally afford to turn on the heat in the winter, instead of choosing which room to bake with the space heater and making periodic dashes to the bathroom. While I thoroughly enjoy not seeing my breath in clouds of white in my own house, or having frost on the INSIDE of the windows (this will be one of those back-in-the-day stories I'll use to scare my children), I have noticed that I do a lot less winter baking than I used to, just so I could huddle near the oven.
Side note: if it's not abundantly obvious, I resent being cold. I hate it with a fury approaching mania. Last night I was singing the praises of dirty little jet towns to Pants and complimenting the Navy's avoidance of truly cold locales when he paused sadly and then set me straight. Great Lakes has a Naval Air station. Goose Bay, Canada could claim us for an exchange tour. Fucking Reykjavik, ICELAND. I stopped humming Anchors Aweigh and cranked up the space heater. Hopefully he gets the point.
Side, side note: in light of my cold-hate, it may seem strange that I'm excited about our upcoming snowboarding trip to Utah. I never claimed logic as a strength.
I just finished reading Jon Krakauer's Under the Banner of Heaven, about Fundamentalist Mormonism and its role in a double murder back in the 1980s, and I'm glad to be going back to Utah for a couple of reasons. First, because my family went there on an epic driving vacation back when I was 13 and my brother was 12, and we visited my grandparents, who were volunteer park rangers at Flaming Gorge at the time. I remember how happy they seemed there, and how cute they were in their uniforms, if I can use the word "cute" without its patronizing connotations. I associate the place with my grandmother-- its wide open spaces and soaring, painted rocks, and I hope going back will make me feel closer to her now that she's gone.
The second reason has more to do with the book. Krakauer quotes several sources as saying that the story of Mormonism is a peculiarly American story, and that the religion itself has a strong streak of particularly American character traits. For instance, one of Mormonism's tenets, as I understand it, is that anyone (any man, at least) can have a revelation from God. Mormons are also characterized in the book as being an industrious, hard-working, relentlessly optimistic type of people. There's also a huge emphasis on the relative newness of its holy texts and beliefs, as compared to traditional Christianity or Judaism, and the vividness and abundance of Joseph Smith's rather fantastical revelations. But there's also a huge, sobering dose of vigilantism and violence.
I realize that I have in no way read a definitive or unbiased account of the faith, and indeed, no religion can truly claim clean hands in the story of its founding and spread, but I think I could learn something pretty important about American history and the role of religion in our cultural and political landscape by looking at the rise of Mormonism. The extent of the Church's corporate connections is interesting all by itself.
Anyway, there's also snow, and I plan to fall in it face-first, knees-first, ass-first, and many other variations. We're taking our shaky old Pick-up Babe the Blue Ox on this adventure and Pants has already made the puzzling and probably wise purchase of a giant plastic water bladder to sit in the truck's back end and weigh it down so it won't slide and spin when we're on ice. Huh. My forethought stops at long underwear and bunch of wool socks. Abby will happily trot off to see her friends at the Dog Jail, but Linus is in for a terrible surprise. Last time he came back from the boarders, his fur was all dull and he'd bitten holes in the blanket I packed for him and peed on it. This time I expect him to hit the bottle and start writing me bad poems.
