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Showing posts with the label DET SOM GÖMS I SNÖ

Closing credits

This year, I thank:

First, the people who gave money, advice, or labor to help our family to buy and move into our new house. I love our house. Every day, I am happy to be in it.

Second, our COVID-19 vaccinators.

Third, our TV. These shows stood out:
Now that I’ve listed them, I see they’re all police procedurals, except Benidorm (a sitcom). Their seriousness varies. Wire in the Blood is gothic and ridiculous. No Offence is jokey and ridiculous; it’s very near to being a sitcom. Rebecka Martinsson has the saddest murder cases. The saddest murderers are in Cracker, which Karin & I are currently watching. The best investigators to watch are played by Ida Engvoll in Rebecka Martinsson, Aaron Pederson in Mystery Road (and in two movies, Mystery Road and Goldstone), and Robbie Coltrane and Geraldine Somerville in Cracker. Pederson and Coltrane, I daresay, are great, and Somerville is often great (the script doesn’t give her enough scenes). Mystery Road and Wire in the Blood are stunningly photographed, and Mystery Road and Rebecka Martinsson have stunning landscapes. Benidorm is ugly to look at, and that’s the point.

One more show, or YouTube channel, is worth mentioning again: Un mundo inmenso.

For completeness, I’d have to list Samuel’s shows, which certainly have taken up much of my time; but I’ll let him discuss them when he begins to blog. This year he has taken great physical and intellectual strides. I am grateful to YouTube for his intellectual ones. Samuel now knows his colors, shapes, numbers, letters, animals, and vehicles; he recognizes quite a few written words; he repeats interesting phrases; and today, he sang a few lines along with Dua Lipa and Elton John.


This year I’ll have completed the Bible-reading schedule devised by Robert Murray M’Cheyne. It’s the best schedule I’ve used, and the Good News Translation has been a joy to read.

I also passed my eyes over more philosophy than in any year since I lived in Ithaca. I wrote down the title of every article and book chapter I finished. Perusing the titles, I’m dismayed that I remember so little of the content. There’s something to be said for reading less.

(This doesn’t reflect well upon the industry of philosophy, whose practitioners are caught up in a whirlwind of having to publish more and more and more.)

I also wrote down the vast majority of the calories I ate; and, consequently, I lost a lot of lbs.

So did Karin, though she’s been gaining weight again. In February, Lord willing, we’ll have another son.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

P.S. I forgot Clarkson’s Farm. That show was outstanding, too!

That which is hidden in snow

I guess you could say we’ve been conducting our own little dig here in Mishawaka.

It snowed all weekend, and this morning it was almost thirty (Fahrenheit) degrees below freezing. We’ve tried shoveling the driveway and sidewalks – Karin, especially, is an impressive digger – but 2–3 inches of snow and ice remain stuck to the ground.

The good news is that we ordered an electric “snow blaster,” which UPS just delivered.

It doesn’t store its power, so we’ll have to use an extension cord. Ours is long enough for all but ten feet of the sidewalk. Perhaps the cord on the “snow blaster” will make up the difference.

Last night, Karin couldn’t bring her car all the way up the driveway and into the garage. We shifted as much snow as we could, and we scattered salt to melt the snow and cat litter to improve the traction. I pushed the car; Karin drove it several feet; but, inevitably, it’d hit some thick patch, and the tires would spin in place.

In the end, we decided to leave the car in a section of the driveway we knew Karin could maneuver out of.

All of this took an hour. I would periodically return to the house to check on Samuel, who had gone to sleep eating his supper.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

After we went inside, we heated some food, crawled under our blankets, and watched four episodes of Det som göms i snö – The Truth Will Out, or, literally, “That Which Is Hidden in Snow” – an excellent Swedish crime series. It seemed appropriate.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The polar vortex reaches down to Texas, where many are without electricity, including Ana, David, and little Ada. Until recently, they were sleeping all bundled up inside their cold house and spending waking hours in their heated car. (The hotels were full.) Then someone lent them a cottage. It is unpowered – but it is heated.