A requiem for winter

There are people who speak of "normal" as a desirable quality in persons and in life.

Bugger those folk.

Normal is a far cry from real or healthy, or interesting. Normal is a facade, a sad, wet, cardboard facade that slowly disintegrates under pressure. Not at all durable.
I've found, that the more one thinks that one's life is normal, the more nature abhors the perceived vacuum and throws not only a monkey wrench, but a power drill, a disc sander and a welding crew at them.

I was a writer of obituaries. You know, those little sketches that go something like this:

Spebbington-Mrs. Arthur Stewart (in that charmingly antiquated style of being a marital accoutrement)

Hortense Margaret Spebbington (nee Ormsby) 94, of Leeds. Preceded in death by husband which was fortunate because his snoring was driving the neighbors batty. She loved going to church (for the bake sales), knitting incessantly and providing her family with all manner of frightening scarves, horridly patterned sweaters, tissue box cozies, and booties for the cat(s). Sadly the requests to cease went unheard. She was also fond of needlepoint and cross stitch, and many family members received framed versions of her work which featured old hackneyed phrases- often accompanied by an obscene representation of bears masquerading as some other animal. Hortense also enjoyed bingo, chain smoking, nagging and decorating her house with chickens. Survived by daughters, Paige, Prudence, Polly and Patricia, sons Paul, Peter and Hogarth III. (the oops baby) Also survived by a teeming mass of cherubic grandchildren who love slobbery denture kisses and cheek pinching only long enough to get their grubby little hands on grannies fresh baked cookies (ahem, church bake sale). She was a godly woman who did everything right and smiled so hard it hurt, even when she wanted to wallop the snot out of you for breaking her godawful clown figurines. (on purpose. the things are scary.) She is now a beautiful angel in heaven, looking down on all the other relatives who never bothered to visit her because she chased them away with a broom when they tried. May she rest in peace.

.....Charmed life, isn't it?
You could say the same for mine, with less bingo and knitting of course.

So, yes. obits. Cracking good times.
And naturally, as death tends to spike in the winter months, legions of grannies, old stodgy war heroes, and other folk pop off because no one really likes to hang about in the cold, wet nastiness that follows the holidays.

Least of all me. Winter is a punishment....rather like an unwanted house guest. The relative that you really can't stand, but let them stay anyhow even though you know they're going to kindle that familiar homicidal feeling in less than a day. And then they stay too long, rearranging your pantry, fixing things that aren't broken, eating the slice of cheesecake that you had saved for yourself. No manner of politeness ousts them. Worst of all, they are apparently blind to your sufferings and do not seem to understand that co-opting the tele and watching the weather channel for hours on end makes you want to gouge their eyes out with a melon-baller. And they don't get the hint that you want them to leave. Even if you tell them.

Yes, that's winter. But I digress....

Where was I headed with this? Oh yes. Normal.
Well, for most people writing obits in the heart of winter wouldn't be normal but it was everyday for me. Tiring, depressing, often boring.

It's hard to focus on one's own life in a positive way when everything around you decides to curl up its toes and die. Like a big parade always headed for the exit, and with the constancy of dishes needing done everyday. Death Death Death. Hooray.

What I mean to describe in further chapters however, is how the perceived normal, the flow of dead people and write-ups and cold breezes changed without a warning. Not even a morsel of warning.

...And I would love to do that right now, but I must immediately remove the pot from the stove unless I would like to enjoy the charcoal flavor in my breakfast.

Bother.