Here’s a very nice meditation on the TV show “Monk,” (which I haven’t been able to see since I cut my cable, but I remember fondly), by Dean Abbott on S. T. Karnick’s The American Culture blog. I’m not sure I agree with the assumption that a Christian subtext actually exists in the series. I’m sure such a subtext can be found by those who want to find it, but whether the writers intended it seems questionable to me. But Abbott doubtless knows more about the writers than I do. Either way, I think the piece has excellent things to say about life in general.

What to write about today? I haven’t finished reading a book recently (I’m working on a book of history, which goes a little slower than novels. I’ll tell you about it soon. Have to take a break from Koontz now and then).

There’s always the weather. God gave us weather so that human beings would always have something to make conversation about. Which means, I suppose, that He intended Minnesotans to be the most voluble people on earth.

Which isn’t the case, if you’ve ever visited here.

Today the high was about +1° F (that’s in the neighborhood of -20° C). It’s been vile for several days, but tomorrow the temperature’s expected to soar to about 15. And it should keep getting warmer into next week.

I’ve been trying to think back about childhood winter memories. I grew up on a farm, on a gravel road. When the big blizzards came, we’d be cut off from civilization for a short time. Never long. We were never driven to eat the dog. We had cows and pigs and chickens who could have served that purpose if necessary, but it never came close. We might have run out of ice cream or bread for a day (we produced our own milk and eggs. We pasteurized the milk on a burner on the stove. We sold our good eggs and ate the ones that had small cracks in them. It’s odd to think of it now, but we did not refrigerate those eggs. We kept them in a carton by the stove, at room temperature. I suppose I must be immune to salmonella after years of that. We went through those eggs pretty fast, though).

We’d turn on WCCO radio from the Twin Cities on the morning of a blizzard, to learn whether school was closed. They’d read the names of all the closed schools in their large listening area. The Faribault station would probably have a shorter list, but we didn’t really trust the Faribault station. WCCO’s school closing announcements had the weight of social authority.

If we got a real dandy storm, a white-out, the roads would drift over and there’d be no going anywhere until the snow plow came through, which could be a while. A day off from school didn’t mean a day of leisure, of course. Aside from the usual chores, we’d have to dig out our driveway once the snow stopped. The fact that we had a short driveway wasn’t an advantage in that regard, because if we’d had a long driveway Dad would probably have bought a snowplow for his tractor and done it that way. Since he had two (later three) sons, he saw no reason to spend money to do a job we could do for free. Once Moloch and I went away to college, he bought the plow.

I didn’t hate shoveling snow as much as I hated most farm jobs. It was clean, for one thing, and it was warm once you’d gotten into the rhythm of the thing. And it was a simple job with a clear goal. You knew how much progress you’d made, and you knew when you were done.

That didn’t stop me from griping. I knew, by way of television, that lots of people lived in a state called California, where it never snowed and (apparently) nobody had any chores, but spent their free time at the beach.

I seem to recall a blizzard where our TV went out. That was tough. In that case there was nothing to do but sit around with the family, listening to the house creaking. I suppose we must have talked, but I can’t imagine what about.

I probably read a book.