The House of Sky

Just started a novel by Ivan Doig, Montanan, called This House of Sky. The writing makes the memories of my time there more vivid and real, instead of like a dream from which I have awakened abruptly in the cold of morning, and much as I try cannot go back to sleep to continue the bliss of the dreamstate.

End of Chapter One: "I have become six years old, my mother's llife drained out at 31 years. And in the first gray daylight, dully heading our horses around from that cabin of the past, my father and I rein away toward all that would come next."

I am making plans now to pack my horses and trailer to head out to New Mexico or northern Michigan even, and ride. Soon as the weather breaks and one can see past wind whipped snow tornadoes and sub zero temperatures that make my hands burn in the barn as I break the ice off the backs of my horses. They burn from frostbite, a day skipping school by jumping a city bus I saw pull up in a snowstorm out the classroom window. I just grabbed my stuff and ran out the door without so much as a word. I'd never done that before. And certainly did not think about how I was going to get home after I got downtown to the counter of the five and dime, eating a piece of cherry pie in the warm and feeling smart. Had to walk home in shoes not made for blizzards and far distances and no gloves. Now I cannot go into the cold without feeling like I've stuck my hands and feet into the blue blaze of a fire. It's a pain you cannot overrule with the mind. The kind that doubles you over with your hands clasped between your knees and face contorted into a "careful or you'll face will freeze" grimace.

I miss the not so distant days of summer riding out over the plains complaining "it's too hot!"

You always want what you don't got.