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For the record, pronounced i-MOLK (no “b”). It actually means “in the belly” and refers to the pregnancy of ewes. According to Wikipedia, Imbolc is “one of the four Gaelic seasonal festivals along with Beltane, Lughnasadh and Samhain.” As such, the February 1st midpoint between the winter solstice and the spring equinox has been an important date in Ireland, Scotland, and the Isle of Man for thousands of years. There’s a lot to read at that link, but this is one of the parts that I liked best:

Thig an nathair as an toll
Là donn Brìde,
Ged robh trì troighean dhen t-sneachd
Air leac an làir.

“The serpent will come from the hole
On the brown Day of Bríde,
Though there should be three feet of snow
On the flat surface of the ground.”

Bríde being the pagan goddess Brighid. Miraculously, the early church determined that the feast day of Saint Brigit of Kildare, nun and abbess and a patron saint of Ireland, was to fall upon the very same day (Feb. 1). At any rate, the point of the Scottish proverb above is weather divination, which brings us then to Groundhog’s Day. But isn’t the original so much better?

Imbolc was believed to be when the Cailleach—the divine hag of Gaelic tradition—gathers her firewood for the rest of the winter. Legend has it that if she wishes to make the winter last a good while longer, she will make sure the weather on Imbolc is bright and sunny, so she can gather plenty of firewood. Therefore, people would be relieved if Imbolc is a day of foul weather, as it means the Cailleach is asleep and winter is almost over. At Imbolc on the Isle of Man, where she is known as Caillagh ny Groamagh, the Cailleach is said to take the form of a gigantic bird carrying sticks in her beak.

(Meanwhile, if ever I complain about anything again, first a) tap me lightly on the forehead with a baseball bat to make sure you have my attention, and then b) remind me that I once spent at least ten years living where I could just look out the window by my desk and see what you see here.)

So Happy Imbolc, everybody (i-MOLK). Halfway down the road to spring.

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This is just silly. Off she goes in the family car on a normal busy day for her, while I sit here “stuck.” I have my ancient truck, an ’87 Ford F-150, for strictly local stuff like driving to the trailhead, running errands, and so forth, but what if I want to take a little trip? (The mountains are full of surprises.) I can’t believe I’ve let this situation go on as long as it has. Me, a grown-up, car-loving, red-blooded American dude. Who cares if I mostly sit here on my ass with a computer in my lap or walk back and forth from the refrigerator?

The situation warrants a fix with dual exhausts!

Man, I am set. Not one, but two full pickup loads of split 500-year-old piñon! Never mind that it hasn’t snowed sinced mid-December and we’ve had sunny days in the fifties. Winter still might make a comeback, and if it does, well hey.

You can read about the wood and UFOs and more in this piece I just published at Medium. “Fifteen People per Square Mile” is a photo-essay I put together to test the fluid, real-time user interface. To find the images, however, I had to search through my photo archives, and that was a revelation.

I have thousands of photos. I don’t use iPhoto or tags or any other management system because I am insane. They’re all in dated folders. To find something I want, I use Cover Flow view on my iMac and whirl through hundreds of images at a time, an excellent way to make you ill. (My legacy FotoFeed site is sometimes handy for nailing down the month and year.) But this time I went way back, almost all the way to San Cristobal in ’99. My God, there are so many good ones. They also reminded me of all the adventures I’ve had in the last fourteen years, but I’m a lot older than that…

You know what’s going on here, right?

FUEL!

Oh yeah.

[BOOM]

A few miles from the scene above we bagged a dentist at the bottom of a canyon. He’s been there for almost forty years, across the road from a mountain with a cross on top.

We had to divorce our old dentist after fourteen years. It was surprisingly difficult for me, although my wife was hot to bolt. I loved my hygienist and hated to leave; after all, your hygienist is the true face of the operation as the one you see most often. But whenever she had to summon the boss to check an x-ray or look at a tooth, I’d hear the shark theme from “Jaws” and my guts would turn ice-cold…

[Daa-DUM, daa-DUM, daa-DUM]

Less like a patient, more like prey.

I’m very fixed and loyal, though, and stuck it out. Also maybe scared to change: the devil you know, etc. Besides, sometimes I’d get away without another root canal and crown, and these little triumphs kept me going. My wife would get her teeth cleaned and nothing ever seemed to happen. I’d curse my luck and sob and dump another couple thousand on the Visa card. The money was outrageous. Not that I didn’t need the work, but it makes you wonder, and there were mistakes. And then my honey drew the short straw—and she decided she’d had enough. Primal fear about the cost, but more the lack of empathy. We had to take control. She also needed treatment right away.

A friend who doesn’t live here now remembered being saved once by an unnamed dentist down the road, but no one I knew had a clue. I searched the Internet—it took a while—and came up with a photo. Identity confirmed! Thirty minutes away, but we got an appointment and checked him out. You get there by plunging deep into the canyon of the Rio Grande, a thrilling, gorgeous ride. It’s a different world at this guy’s place, all calm and competent and human. (He gave my wife a root canal today and changed to classical music for the pianist in his chair.) We’ll pay about a third less, too, but you know what?

We busted out. Now this will set the tone.