With the deep freeze we’ve been in plus the snow, I’ve been camped out in my family room by the fireplace. I declared my snowed-in time as a writer’s retreat, but it hasn’t worked out exactly that way.
At a writer’s retreat, I didn’t need to do laundry or vacuum up tiny wood chips that dropped as I carried in wood. Nor did the place include a full kitchen where I could make Mexican rice from an internet recipe that ended up rivaling that of a restaurant. Nor did it include a TV that I could turn on at night and stream Hot in Cleveland for a laugh.
But I did write. And I enjoyed the warm room and cheerful flames. Problem was… the ashes mounted up in my ash bucket. Traipsing in the snow to the concrete-block ash-dumping circle in my woods did not appeal. However, the bucket had to be emptied—and soon—if I wanted another fire as the temps headed back into single digits.
In my office is a little sign a friend gave me: Take a deep breath and do the difficult thing first. Many times, I’ve followed that advice—made a hard phone call, completed a difficult chore, got groceries when I didn’t want to leave the house. On my list today was empty the ash bucket. It was full. It had to be done. That thought badgered me yesterday when I cleaned out the fireplace before laying up a fire.
“Do it now. Don’t delay,” a nagging voice in my head said as I ate my breakfast of egg and toast. “It’ll only take two minutes.” I didn’t need to wait until I’d showered and dressed for frigid weather. I could do it before dawn, the neighbors would never see me wearing Jim’s heavy terry-cloth robe outside,[1] and the task would be done. But I kept reading the paper until the sun rose and it was barely daylight.
Still, the little devil on my shoulder said, “Do it. Do it now.”
So I ventured outside and stepped one foot in the snow. It sank, telling me I’d have to wear boots. With that decision made, I put on ill-fitting rubber boots, hand-me-downs from my mother-in-law decades ago that I kept by the back door, hefted that full bucket, and walked onto the hardened snow, sinking with every step.
It’s not quite an acre from my back porch to my safe dump spot, but I miscalculated the small snow-obscured rise in the yard. Down I went, the bucket in front of me, spilling some ashes, but it really broke my fall.[2] I scurried up and walked heel first breaking the slippery crust of the snow and carefully made my way to the woods. Because I was still in Jim’s long robe with the sleeves rolled up to fit, there were no gloves in my pockets, and the bucket handle iced my fingers. But no big deal, I was doing this.
Without further problems, and on the way back stopping to scoop, with my bare hand, the spilled ashes from atop the frozen snow into the bucket, it was over. On the porch, I struggled out of the boots and walked proudly into the house and triumphantly marked that chore off my list with a big fat black line.
Risky at my age? You bet. And if my sons read this, those same three sons who lecture me about not climbing a ladder, there will be hell to pay.[3] But I’ve felt exuberant ever since. If I had ever climbed Everest, I think this is how I would feel. If I had ever swum the English Channel, this would be that feeling. If I had ever won Olympic gold in women’s singles figure skating, I’d be standing tall like I am now.
I don’t condone this type of risky behavior. But sometimes, we have to step out of our comfort zones and do something out of the ordinary. However, we should be aware of the possible consequences and take those into consideration before doing something stupid.
I know I’ve learned my lesson. Next time, I’ll wear gloves.
[1] If they saw me, they would ask, “What is that crazy little woman doing now? And what is that get-up she’s wearing in 15-degree weather?”
[2] At this point, I foolishly considered returning to the house, but I am not a quitter.
[3] They threaten they already have my nursing home picked out.
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