He slept in this morning. Way past a hunter’s hours. Neither of us could force ourselves out of bed. One slip of my arm outside the quilts tells me why. It was cold.
A weekend getaway at a primitive cabin in late October sounded blissful. My husband could hunt and I could write. What we didn’t expect was the cold.
“The fire must have died out,” I said.
“Probly,” he replies.
“I heard you get up last night. Didn’t you add a few logs?”
“I can’t remember.”
He didn’t. I know. I heard him go outside to the bathroom. He talked to Sandy (our lab) and then came back to bed. I don’t know what he was thinking.
“I don’t think you did,” I remind him.
“I guess I didn’t.” He goes back to sleep.
I lie in bed awake for about an hour. I’m not so sure I can start a fire in the stove. Besides, I’d freeze out there. What would I do without heat?
I could make coffee maybe. That might coax him to get up and then he could make a fire. I crawl out of bed. Looking for my insulated pants, long sleeve shirt, hooded sweatshirt, wool socks and slippers, I hear him mumble something.
“You should put your clothes on under the covers,” I hear him say faintly.
“So they warm up.”
I look at him and shake my head.
“That’s what I do.” He rolls over and goes back to sleep.
For Pete’s Sake.
Coffee it is.
The coffee maker is an old 1960’s plug in percolater pot. No filters needed. It makes dang good coffee. And it’s loud. Each percolation is a pop-gun. I wrap myself in two blankets, put on my cap and mittens, grab my book and wait on the couch.
Finally. . . hook, line and sinker.
“You makin coffee?” he creeps out of the bedroom.
“Geezzzz, it’s cold out here!” he notices.
He starts to make a fire.