It is cold here. January is the worst month—rainy, wet, foggy, windy, miserable. When I was on the farm, we hated it. It seemed as if all we did was feed cows and freeze, then come in the house, drink gallons of hot tea with our socks and shoes upside down on the heat register. As soon as they were dry, off we’d trudge.
Farm life looks great on TV. In real life, it is hard, cold/wet or hot/boiling.
So my bedroom window is the highest spot for wind from the SIERRAS to Hanford, 60 miles west. There is a building in Visalia that is a little windbreak—only it is on the other side of the street. My window and the wind from the Sierras. I looked it up on GoogleMap.
So I’m all whiney because it’s cooooold. Waa waa waa.
But I have a roof over my head, a bed, heat, an electric blanket and electricity. When I walk the dogs, I cannot tell you how many homeless people I pass in the alley, huddled up in doorways, sleeping on cardboard with trashbags as cover. They don’t have a dryer to toss their leggings and jeans and sock into, so they can warm up before braving the elements for the hour I go out with the dogs.