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The Soothing Sounds of Water

 I love the sound of water. I have a small fountain in my home that I have to allow the soothing sound of water. And I remember falling asleep near the river when I was young, it's rushing sounds soothing to me and allowing wonderful dreams and fond memories. But there are times when water is the last thing that I want to hear. Water, i.e. drips, in the winter, in my house, mean that my roof is leaking. Again. My DH usually has to deal with the roof a couple of times during an average winter. This year he has already been up on the roof dealing with our ice dams five times, and I heard a drip this morning at 3:30 am which will result in his playing with the roof again today instead of being at the shop. Yesterday he spent most of the day working on his Dad's roof. This has been a miserable year for ice dams and roof leaks, and it's still January. We're doomed.....

Hell Frozen Over

I find it interesting that few views of hell are a frozen hell. I know that in some parts of Northern Europe, hell is postulated to be frozen, not firery. But a frozen hell is rare. In fiction, only Marion Zimmer Bradley's "Darkover" series had a frozen hell, and in Dante's Inferno, Satan is at the bottom of hell, frozen up to his chest level. So a frozen hell does exist, it is just not thought of very often. As winter progresses across the nation this season, I'm beginning to consider the old adage of hell being here on earth. This is a long winter, this is an unforgiving winter, and this is a winter that I'm really tired of. Really, really, really tired of. Here's hoping that you have an outstanding weekend. I will celebrate my Sunday off by having Italian for dinner, as usual for my Saturday night treat.
  • Current Location: Wishing for a Warm Beach and a Hot Cabana Boy
  • Current Mood: stressed stressed
  • Current Music: Bedrich Smetana - Piano Trio
The Fell winter has come down from the north upon thee :(

I do hope there is some let-up soon, and signs of spring.

I agree about loving the sound of running water. Through my teens, the family (including uncles, aunts and cousins) all used to go on holiday to a house in Snowdonia. It was really in the wilds, the road past it was tiny, barely wide enough for a car, and with cattle-grids, so some-one always had to get out, open the gate across the road, let the car drive through, and get back in, so it was a slow drive.
The house was next to a very rocky stream, that formed a couple of deep pools as it came down a very steep part of the mountainside. (I used the memory of one pool as where Gil-galad was buried in Imladris.) Even the drinking water came from that stream, further up, as it was incredibly clear. Because it does rain a lot in the mountains, sometimes the stream would roar down, but it was always musical, and very soothing to drift off to sleep to.

Do enjoy your dinner tonight! :)

Edited at 2011-01-29 11:13 am (UTC)
Oh, that sounds just lovely. I adore the descriptions of Gil-Galad's burial place in your stories, and knowing it is based on a real childhood memory of yours makes it even more special.

I was raised in Aspen, Colorado when I was a child, and our house was two blocks away from the Roaring Fork river. I could hear the river through my open windows at night. It was a constant, beloved companion.

- Erulisse (one L)
knowing it is based on a real childhood memory of yours makes it even more special.

It was (is, I suppose, the house is still for rent, but is an kind of outdoor activities place now, mainly for Scouts and Army cadets) a beautiful place, over six feet deep where the waterfall fell into it, but rising to very shallow, with a natural dam of stones, that the water flowed through or over.

I could hear the river through my open windows at night. It was a constant, beloved companion.

How very beautiful. I would miss it greatly. I do miss the sound of wind in the trees, as my Nan's house had 3 huge sycamores around it. I remember (funny thing to remember) going up to her bedroom on winter nights when the family were downstairs. The room would be warm and smell of lavender, linen and her perfume, but the window would be cold (no double glazing). I never switched the lamp on, and the way her door closed, no light came in at all, as the downstairs rooms were always closed to preserve the heat. I used to cup my hands around my eyes and try and see out, and would hear the moan of the wind, and see nothing but darkness. The lay of the land made it very hard to see distant lights of other houses or villages unless it was clear and still, as the movement of the tree branches obscured them when it was windy.
I would think of the night covering the land, of how the world went back into the old dark, with people indoors beside their fires, and it was very comforting. I felt as if the night protected me.
As a child of cities, I rarely get an opportunity to have a true dark and experience both dark and starlight. Light pollution is so prevalent in the US, even on the Reservation we had yard lights. I envy you your sycamore trees.

- Erulisse (one L)
Oh dear, your enduring winter sounds entirely hellish and I hope it lets up soon -- but I can't help but love that sign!