Big Chill

You can read the full text of Shakespeare’s poem, “Winter,” from Love’s Labour’s Lost here, but several lines describe our recent weather:

When icicles hang by the wall . . . milk comes frozen home in pail . . .blood is nipp’d and ways be foul. . . when all aloud the wind doth blow. . . .

For a couple of days, the winds howled.

Last night, the temperature dropped into the teens. Tonight is supposed to be a new low.

I don’t have “icicles on the wall” (the winds dried up the recent rain) or milk frozen in the pail, but I do have ice in the horse tubs. Several inches of ice.


Watering wasn’t fun. I couldn’t get all the ice out of the tubs before I refilled.


Don’t know if my “blood is nipp’d,” but my fingers got really cold and my arthritis is making its presence known. I’d planned to go to Roanoke tonight, but figured I couldn’t drive well with achy legs.

And don’t even get me started on “ways be foul.”

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