So Mojo lives where there's snow. Not huge SCADS of it, like they get in Buffalo, or this year in Boston. But enough. It can be cold, too, although sustained subzero temperatures only happen a handful of times a year. It's cold enough for snow, but when the sun comes out and it warms to the late twenties or early thirties it can be downright pleasant.
We've had a lot of snow lately, with another foot promised between now and Monday night. I've been bringing firewood into the house in preparation for this latest bout. I have reached that point every year in the woodshed, when I have burned through all the wood we have purchased from the Wood Guy (as everyone calls the guy who cuts, splits and delivers multiple cords of firewood every fall) and I am now burning wood I have cut, split and stacked all by myself. And every year I get that same gasp of recognition when I realize I am now burning through my own wood, from this very property, instead of that purchased from and delivered by a stranger.
So this past weekend, for some reason buried somewhere in the male psyche, the Favorite Husband decided he was going to sit in the recliner.
I'm sure there are THOUSANDS of men around the WORLD who decided to sit in their recliners last weekend. The thing is, in our house, although he loves his recliner as all red-blooded American men must love their recliner, the Favorite Husband really doesn't sit in it all that much. To begin with, the way the living room is currently arranged, the couch is the beast that faces the oh-so-important television set. The recliner has the temerity to sit at a 90-degree ANGLE from the screen. Because, ya know, that's where it fits in the room. Plus, as you can (maybe) see from the picture, it makes a lovely cat perch for felines who wish to look outside at the various birdies and beasties that mock them from the safety of the other side of the window.
(Now we can only watch in silent awe as Mojo takes this generic announcement of the Favorite Husband sitting in the recliner and weave it into some deft, airy work of art.)
You see this on the left? This thingie is a well pump. It pumps water out of a well and sends it to a pressure tank, and hence pressurizes the water throughout my house. Without it, the water would never climb itself out of the basement, let alone flush our toilets or shower our filthy, filthy bodies clean. In conclusion: Mojo likes having running water.
So Mojo, as we have said countless times in the past, lives in the sticks. There are about 1,200 people in town, and I probably know about half of them--the ones that frequented the library, as well as those serving on various town committees and other sundry political offices, and service folk I frequently encounter--mostly the postmistress, since as far as service industries go it's that and the general store, and I sort of got out of the habit of going to the general store when the old owners left and it was not functional for a year or so. But I digress.