A journalist observes life in the far north.
How many cups of coffee does it take to offset the affects of two shots of NyQuil 12 hours ago?
I ask because I am on cup No. 3 and I still feel lackadaisical.
Lucky is nearby shoving Special K cereal in her mouth.
Alec draped another blanket over me at about 6 a.m. before going to work. I’m surprised I remember it because I slept like the dead.
Thank you, NyQuil. My throat hurts and my back aches but at least I am rested.
I am debating whether to be swabbed to see if what I have is the swine flu.
Speaking of, I asked the head of the state virology laboratory recently whether I should hide out on Murphy Dome for the next year with my baby to avoid the pandemic. After all, Lucky is in a “high risk group.” He thought that sounded radical—I remember he used that word—especially since the swine flu is no worse than the regular flu.
It’s inevitable that I and my family will be exposed, he said.
Great, I thought.
I saw on the tv news last night that the Lower 48 is suffering a heat wave with temperatures in the hundreds down South.
After weeks of spectacularly sunny warm weather, the rains have come here.
The predators have come too. Two nights ago, we saw a hawk standing on the tip top of a black spruce tree outside our living room window. It was hunting hares, Alec said.
The hawk must be a terrible hunter because I saw two hares munching on weeds in the yard this morning.
My aunt is still at a homeless shelter in Milwaukee. I called her and she sounded normal, which was reassuring. I’ve left two messages for her social worker but he’s not called back.
The newspaper where I work shrunk. Literally. We’re printing on smaller paper. Seventeen percent smaller to be exact. I think it looks kind of low budget.