It sounded so romantic when Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote about waking up to frost on the windows, breath hanging suspended in the air and so on.... but when it happens to you, all you can really think about is: "I am freezing freezing freezing," or, "Just get socks on the baby--who cares if they match? My fingers are fumbling too much to sort through this basket--and she needs two or three pairs on anyway!"
Our outdoor wood-burning furnace died today... And boy, are three-centuries old houses drafty. We could actually see our breath floating out in front of us, wispy clouds of...oh, forget it. It just isn't poetic in real life.
Besides, despite getting some oil heat going, my fingers are still fumbling a bit too much to type anything that sounds pretty.
Still, a new appreciation has been awakened in me for the women who lived in my home for the centuries before I was born. It's fun to think about....the colonial housewife cuddling her baby by the fireplace...the stylish young ladies of the mid 1800's, somehow stuffing their hoop skirts through that narrow doorway...the dismay that some wife of last century must have felt when it was decided that this whole electricity thing was inevitable. Apparently there was a neighbor several years back who remembered stories her mother told of fancy dinners and dances held here in the 1920's, with a gas-lit chandelier hanging over the dining room--can't you just imagine the swishy dresses and the sparkling jewels and the music blaring over the phonograph?
There I go, getting romantic again. Let me just take a deep breath of this frigid air and thank God that I was born in the twentieth century.
|But we can't help pretending sometimes! :) |
Lucy got very good at carding wool this summer,
but Zoe definitely beat her at looking like a proper 18th century miss.