Twelve and Eight

That would be twelve o'clock and eight degrees.

This is the fourth day in a row in which the thermometers in northern Michigan descended into double digits below zero overnight. Daytime highs during that stretch have not reached 10 degrees above. My father had two mornings this week where the mercury rested beneath -20. Pipes are breaking, cars don't want to start, lips are chapped, and my wiener dog doesn't want to do things outside that it should. Pristine carpets all over the northern tier of states are being soiled.

On mornings like these the snow scrunches loudly under foot and the inside of the nostrils freeze quickly. Last night at 10:00, and under a clear and starry sky, minuscule ice crystals floated down from above, the cold air having squeezed whatever little moisture it could find out of the atmosphere without the benefit of clouds.

I don't have anything tremendously witty to say about global warming or the perils of climate change. I just want Al Gore to feel my pain.