Camping Out Inside

There are dollars in my checking account. What I am about to say is not shared in desperation (as in  ”I have a terrible rash and Great God in Hebbin Above, I’m mizaba!) but in the spirit of adventure and fondling FATE with her permission and my free will.
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Lurching into the winter after the first summer in my LIFE when I have not enjoyed at least one air-conditioned room in my house, it is, perhaps, natural that I have decided to continue my green streak (using less of the public utilities) even if I turn blue. I’ve decided not to turn on my home’s working furnace until absolutely necessary for the sake of maintaining unbroken, un-burst water pipes. That’s my goal. The morning I awaken and nothing comes out of my kitchen faucet when it’s time for Folger’s in my cup is the morning I will “turn on my furnace,” so to speak.
I consider this adventure “camping out with better furniture.”
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Which is not  to say “without a sleeping bag.”  The one given to me by my friend Barry Tempest, en route home to King’s Cliff, England after spending a week at the national EAA event at Oshkosh, Wisconsin  and spending a few days in Springfield returning “trans-pond” to the nation of kidney pie is being appreciated every night.
I don’t crawl into it. I’ve never crawled into any sleeping bag because the thought of my head stopping where feet traditionally spend their evenings in quiet repose . . . . does not appeal to me. Every night to most of the last month, the totally unzipped bag covers me like a blanket at I sit in the living room easy chair and read, eat supper, watch a little PBS and nap until awakening, typically about 1 or 2 am.
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That is when I decide to A:  toddle off to bed after taking a few hearty hits of my friend Carlo Rossi Burgundy in the family size gallon bottle or B: turn off the light quickly re-settle into the chair in a semi-recumbent posture while the sleeping bag is still warm. There are advantages to each. This modus de dreamville of lying prone still maintains the allure of tradition with me. I like lying down between sheets and quilt with a few pillows. I like if even more with a consenting adult who hums tunes Mary Martin used to sing. Some dreams don’t fade away. On the other hand, the new sheets and pillowcases are not cotton. They are some kind of artificial fibre, and when I arrive in the bedroom from the warm cotton-lined, sleeping bag spread over me, I feel like I’m covering myself with cold, woven plastic. Eeeeuwzers! It takes up to 15 minutes to rediscover where my toes are in bed past September. Up to five nights a week I stay in the chair because the TV turns itself off if it’s on, I can snuff the only light on in the house by reaching up from the living room chair.
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I never bring Carlo to the bedroom. I will NOT drink myself to sleep. 
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The adventure continues when I awaken to the new day as early as 4 am and later.  The only time I enter the bathroom is to purge liquid except for occasional visits to the shower, usually on a Sunday, the Lord’s day and sometimes not even that. I’m not going to turn on one of my space heaters for days when no one likely to notice will be closer than five feet to me. For short-term action — poetry events, open mics, receptions, witch burnings . . . . after shave lotion generously applied to cheeks, beard and lower thorax can compensate for a infrequent attention to hygiene. When it really matters — like when I expect someone I know will sit next to me at one of these sociable events — I do return to my regular haunt with soap,  a plastic curtain and streaming hot relief. The warmth from these leisurely visits sinks in deeply enough so that I don’t become a shivering soggyperson before I’m dry and fully ready for action.
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One reason I don’t mind driving out to my AeroKnow Museum at the airport at 5 am is that I know I will be warmer there than at my inside campground. There’s also free coffee and a warm bathroom there.  The benefit that I accomplish a LOT between arrival and 8:45 departure for my part-time “employer” is almost “icing” (icing meaning sweetness) on the cake of  beneficent circumstance.
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Since mid-November I’ve been wearing a dry bath towel over my head like a scarf and tucked into my leather jacket opening at the neck. It’s amazing how much warmer my ears are, a boost to the overall outlook compromised in my camping adventure. I recommend the towel head approach.
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As long as I’m home only long enough for a late supper and sleep, I expect the adventure to continue sans despair and regret. Saving money is a boost to self-respect. I’m getting accustomed to awakening at 1 and seeing my breath sometimes. I think it’s all pretty cool.
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Live long . . . . . . and proper.