On the bubble

A Galilean thermometer hangs outside of our kitchen window and it's a perfect example of how the lovely husband and I see the world: I love the thermometer so much because I think it's pretty and he dislikes it because it has limited utility and it's imprecise and yet he never suggests we replace it with another one because he loves me.

These thermometers only measure the temperature in five-degree increments, and the lowest measurement this particular model will show is 50 degrees. It works for me because anything below 50 is cold, isn't it? And the details don't much matter.

50 is when I'll send the kids outside to play without bundling; the degree at which I'll toss them out the backdoor and not worry about their welfare. This picture is from last last week, as we spent the early part of a Sunday morning watching for that first bubble to drop and tell us the neighborhood has left the cold 40s behind.

The weekend before that it was almost 80 here, and now as I type it's snowing outside our windows. I think March is off her meds.