Memphis Democrat
March 16, 2006

By Molly:

Throughout my adult life, I have always mentally checked out of the conversation as soon as small talk regarding the weather began. The mere mention of ³how nice it¹s been² was liable to make my eyes glaze over, or - in extreme cases - trigger a discreet yet hasty scramble for the nearest exit (I have particularly fond memories of a time when talk of the humidity reduced me to seriously weighing the pros and cons of hurling myself out of a second-story window).

That being said, upon looking back at my recent communications with friends and family, a somewhat disturbing trend begins to emerge: I find evidence of myself writing excitedly about the temperature fluctuations and the various forms of precipitation of past weeks, and, on more than one occasion, waxing eloquent on such topics as wind chill factor and cold fronts. This troubling behavior is born out by a further erratic conduct on my part: I, who had never so much as looked at a weather report in my life, now habitually pore over 5-day forecasts with the kind of fascination usually reserved for election returns.

What on earth has happened to me?

I focused my (fairly limited) powers of introspection on this dilemma, and, after some meticulous soul-searching, have traced the problem to it¹s likely source: I live in an ecovillage now. Whereas in my former life I had a fleet of heaters, thermostats, and assorted technological gadgets all specifically designed to buffer me from the merest hint of meteorological discomfort, I now find myself in a position where there¹s nothing but a wood-burning stove and a couple of bales of straw between the elements and my frail person. Thus, the creative application of layers becomes a daily ritual, firewood a regular concern, and 65-degree days an occasion for rejoicing in the streets. The thunderstorms of this past week had a kind of effect on the plans for each day (walking to the store is an entirely different proposition when there are lightening bolts cracking overhead) that is simply not conceivable in a land of cars, one-stop-shopping, and limitless indoor media.

Despite the erratic weather of the past week, though, people here at Dancing Rabbit have kept themselves admirably busy. A few even contrived to have some fun - Monday night saw the official conclusion to Ninja Week, where Rowan earned himself the title of Grand Master Ninja and, as a reward, has asked that we address him as ³Sensei Brian² from now on. Power levels were high enough on Friday to allow for a movie screening in the common house, and Saturday evening ushered a group of Rabbits to Memphis for a night out at the variety show.

Despite the multitude of goings-on around the village, however, the great drama of the week was undoubtedly the tragic breakdown of our washing machine. On Monday the appliance began rattling like a creature possessed, and it was only on Wednesday that we (or, rather, the repairman) discovered the source of its troubles: the under wire to a bra stuck in the machine¹s workings. The offending paraphernalia was quickly removed, crisis was averted, and a relieved jubilation was felt by all. (Of course, it should be noted that we certainly don¹t blame the poor washer ­ under wires make many of us human members of the village testy, too.)

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