There are days, Lord knows, when the only warm spot in the whole house is the space under the covers where I’ve nested through the night, and it’s awfully hard to leave it. Mornings when the air is cold and the floor is like ice and there aren’t enough socks and sweaters to make me comfortable. When the cup of coffee that I waited so anxiously for was the first thing I touched that gave off heat. Days when tablet and book and coffee are hauled into the bathroom, where the little electric space heater creates a tolerable climate.
There are mornings in spring and fall where the first shivering action I take is to close all the windows against the cold and damp, thinking “What was I thinking, to leave things open all night?” There are mornings when the sky turns from dark gray to light gray, and that’s the only hint – in twenty-four hours – that the sun even exists. Mornings when the grass crackles with frost and an icy dew covers everything.
There are mornings – granted, few enough of them here on Beaver Island – when I wake up sticky, hot, as if I had slept in a tent. When my hair is damp from sweat and my pajamas stick to my skin. When the spot directly in front of the fan is the only place there is any movement of air. When a long drink of cold water seems absolutely necessary to survival.
And then, of course, there are mornings like this.