Winter is Back with a Vengeance

Well, this morning we woke up to howling winds and a -30 windchill. Not long after Jessie got on the bus did the snow start falling. I was talking to Jessie's volleyball coach on the phone when it started and she said her kids were on their way back home. The bus got halfway to town and decided to turn around. Apparently, Jessie's bus made it before the storm hit. I may have to go to town and get her this afternoon.

Needless to say, chores were done in a hurry this morning. We still have no barn doors due to renovations, so I squeezed Copper through a small door into the lean to of the barn so he would be out of the wind. At 37, winter isn't the best time of the year for him. I'm sure he is disgusted with sharing space with two pot bellied pigs and a plethera of cats. I had to carry water to the barn b/c the faucet there is frozen. Kelly was doing chores with the tractor, so I went to help open gates. The wind and snow were blowing so hard we couldn't see the road for a stretch. It is not fit for man or beast out there, so Kelly is downstairs watching The Flintstones and I am spending the day catching up on laundry.

Anyways, that is all that is exciting and worth talking about in the Arctic North today. I hope everyone is doing well.

This pretty well sums up how I feel today.

The Cremation of Sam McGee

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.

Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.

He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;

Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.

Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.

If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;

It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,

And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,

He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;

And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:

"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold, till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.

Yet 'tain't being dead — it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;

So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."
A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;

And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.

He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;

And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,

With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;

It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:

"You may tax your brawn and brains, But you promised true, and it's up to you, to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.

In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.

In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,

Howled out their woes to the homeless snows — Oh God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;

And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;

The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;

And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;

It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."

And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;

Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;

The flames just soared, and the furnace roared — such a blaze you seldom see;

And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;

And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.

It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;

And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;

But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;

I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.

I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;

And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and said: "Please close that door.

It's fine in here, but I greatly fear, you'll let in the cold and storm —

Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.