Blueblack and cracked

Tonight there is going to be a low of 39 degrees, and I am sitting here in my puffy jacket because there is no heat in my apartment.  We're in the process of moving, so it's only a temporary arrangement.  But in the mean time, I am so grateful for a little invention called the hot water bottle.  The hot water bottle is ingenious in its simplicity.  It's even better if you have an electric kettle to boil up hot water in a jiffy.  You know how when you get into bed, it takes a few minutes for the chill to wear off the sheets?  Not so with the hot water bottle!  Just tuck it in while you change into your pajamas, brush your teeth, and then snuggle up beside it.  Not only will you have the warmth from the bottle itself but the spot where it was sitting will remain cozy and hot.  It's all you can do to not say, "Ahhhh," I promise you.

It's funny how it's not really necessary to improve upon some things.  The guy who invented this rubber incarnation of the hot water bottle at the turn of the last century got it right.  I had to look him up.  His name is Slavoljub Eduard Penkala.  Apparently he is the same guy who invented the mechanical pencil and the first solid-ink fountain pen. He had over 70 patents!  Well done, Slavoljub.  My chilly old bones thank you.

Speaking of cold, does anyone remember the following poem from high school English class?  Right now I'm finding the "blueblack cold" easy to identify with- it's such a great description.  It's taken for granted, but the simple act of getting up and facing that cold, starting the fire so his family can be warm, is a tremendous act of love by the father.  It makes your heart ache as you realize along with the speaker what love is truly made of.

Those Winter Sundays

by Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. 
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?