Relative Something

I made it to Sunday morning. Later today I am expecting Cyndie to return from her travels. Things have gone well at the ranch during her absence, but I am growing weary of being the sole provider of care to our collection of animals. My efforts have been partially hampered by physical limitations resulting from a bulging disc in my lower back that has started getting worse again after a brief improvement last week. I’m getting the essential chores done, but little else. I have alternated between resting and practicing the regimen of walking and doing exercises to strengthen my core.

Oh, and I’ve been reading. I am into the book, “The Lost Men –The Harrowing Saga of Shackleton’s Ross Sea Party,” by Kelly Tyler-Lewis. I’m thrown back to polar travel in 1914-1915, and it is truly putting my petty complaints in perspective. Be forewarned, the following excerpt is pretty graphic:

Still, a long sojourn in the hut was a bleak prospect for men in their condition. The first sight of Mackintosh’s party shocked Hayward. “I cannot describe their ghastly appearance, the Skipper looks dazed,” he wrote in his diary. Wild’s condition seemed the worst, his feet “raw like steak” and his right ear tinged green and oozing viscous fluid. The frostbite damage had almost certainly progressed to gangrene. Joyce’s hand, nose, and feet were beyond feeling, and his fingers were bloated and misshapen. Mackintosh’s face was disfigured into a swollen mass of mottled, livid flesh. The socket of his missing eye was badly stricken. Cope tended their injuries, although his clinical practice had thus far been limited to performing a postmortem on a dog with a copy of Modern Surgery at hand. He amputated one of Wild’s toes and part of his ear.     The first night of their reunion was appalling. The group had only three sleeping bags between them, so sodden and worn that Hayward called them “indescribable unless Dante’s inferno would meet the case.” The six men shared the bags, sleeping and pacing by turns as the temperature fell to seventy below zero. “We are still alive this morning, so must be thankful,” wrote Hayward.

Page after page of this story describes trials and tribulations that boggle the mind with extremeness of hardship, yet they forge ahead with an ability to cope that exceeds my ability to comprehend. My life’s struggles more than pale in comparison, yet, the twinging pain in my lower back, which stabs like a knife unexpectedly at the slightest maneuver, still commands my attention with a vividness that rivals what I read.

Unfortunately, Cyndie is far from pain-free, complaining of her hip not liking the flying and driving, so having her home to help care for our animals and clear snow today will be just a partial relief, but of course that won’t stop her from trying. We make quite a pair.

I’m pretty sure Delilah will be happy to see Cyndie. Last night she seemed to hop up every few moments, as if she was hearing momma arriving home. She senses that Cyndie usually comes home each day and it’s now been several.

Delilah made me laugh on Friday night as the full moon had her barking at the sight of it. From her vantage point, there was the addition of glare off the truck parked in front of the shop garage, and I suppose it appeared that lights were on indicating someone was out there. Much later, she missed the real thing, as I spotted a few deer in our back yard around midnight, snacking on berries in a tree, and some lower pine branches, in the brilliant moon light while Delilah slept soundly.

We keep getting an inch or two of snow here and there, and I’ve been waiting for it to end before putting in a full effort to clear the driveway and the front of the barn. Today was going to be that day, but now they are forecasting accumulations of 4-7 inches tonight and tomorrow morning. I guess that is enough that I should clear things today to make room for tomorrow’s batch, or I’ll end up with too much at once. It is tough to know which is worse, doing the work twice in two days, or doing the larger job tomorrow.

With an ailing back, both options seem daunting. Anyway, as Hayward wrote in his diary, I am alive, so must be thankful.

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