Shifting Sun, and a Winter Storm

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The sun shifts during late autumn and winter. Its arc is lower in the sky than it is in summer. My writing desk sits perpendicular to the westernmost of six picture windows in the sunroom. Each window is 6 feet high and 5 feet wide. That is a lot of glass to clean. I am reminded of this when the sun hits the windows in late afternoon, highlighting every smudge and dust speck on their surfaces.

The windows, facing south, provide a lovely view of Pancho’s Pond and the woods beyond. I can spy our aged donkey rolling in the dirt, scratching his back, the longhorn steer calves, Waylon and Willie, trudging back to their loafing shed to eat some of the hay I put out the other day. I can see the pups outside doing their business inside the fenced backyard and know when they are ready to get back inside, where it is warm. The level of sunflower seeds left in the bird feeders can be noted without leaving my desk chair. I spy Ozzie the Terrorist Cat with his head buried in the mulch around the juniper bushes, trying in vain to catch a mole. When the traffic dies down, I can hear our four hens clucking from their pen attached to the backyard fence.

The winter shift in the sun means that, on sunny days, its rays shine directly on me from sunrise until late afternoon when sitting at my iMac. This makes it hard to see the two computer monitors and is distracting. I am loath to install shades and impede the view of our hobby farm. Last year, I devised an inexpensive solution that is a good fit for my lifelong career in journalism. I took a heavy copper vase purchased in San Miguel de Allende about 20 years ago, then grabbed a comic-page umbrella. The umbrella was a subscription premium we offered when I published The Daily Union in Junction City, Kansas — a mercifully brief exile before I escaped back to Texas.

The umbrella features color comics such as Peanuts, Wizard of Id, Dilbert, and others. The vase is just heavy enough to hold it upright. It starts perched on the printer in the early morning, then makes its way to the desk as the day progresses, allowing me to see the monitors and still enjoy the birds flitting about the feeder.

 

Some folks believe that opening an umbrella indoors can bring bad luck. This stems, my dive into Google AI indicates, from both ancient Egyptian fears of offending the sun god and Victorian England, where heavy, spring-loaded umbrellas could easily poke an eye out or damage furniture. The latter rings true. People are injured and occasionally killed by umbrellas every year. I always take care to never open an umbrella toward people or critters.

I am decidedly not a superstitious person. I walk under ladders, when necessary, have accidentally broken mirrors without worrying about seven years of bad luck, and never throw salt over my left shoulder after spilling some. (That would seem to compound the mess.) I do not believe I can “jinx” anything by talking about it.

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I was able to take down the umbrella when the latest winter storm arrived last weekend since the sun was hidden. My Beautiful Mystery Companion and I spent a few hours on Thursday preparing — putting up a couple of tarps inside the coop to block the north wind and accompanying ice from our quartet of hens: Dolly Parton, Loretta Lynn, Patsy Cline, and June Carter Cash. The hens are hardy. Each laid a daily egg during the four days when temperatures stayed below freezing. I added a small crockpot to provide water after their regular water container froze solid.

The steers got two fresh bales of hay and daily treats of range cubes. We used a heavy metal pipe to break the ice on their tank and along the edge of Pancho’s Pond. We put out birdseed not only in the regular feeder but also in several trays on the front and back porches. Both Ozzie the Terrorist Kitty and Olive the Cat spent hours licking their chops while watching hundreds of birds devouring seeds — cardinals, red-winged blackbirds, chickadees, and sparrows — through the windows. The cats did not appreciate being sequestered inside, but it kept the birds safe.

By Monday morning, the sun was shining, the umbrella was back up to block its rays, and I was back in front of the screen, working and writing. The roads were still too icy to venture into town, but our home was cozy and warm.

For that and so much more, I am grateful.

 

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