Spring in January

We had a little flurry of snow last week. It was cold enough for that then. But now it is gardening weather again. I think it hit 70 degrees here today.

Last night I spied some deer sneaking through the yard. It was 5:15 p.m. in January with overcast skies. I had not tried out my new Canon camera in low-level light. Any other camera would have given me only black that I maybe could have contrasted an image out of in photo software. Aside from cropping this, it is untouched.

I was much further away when I took this shot, and still, aside from a little graininess, the images captured nicely. I am very pleased as the only other camera I've ever had that would do this well at dusk or low light was my 35 mm Nikon FG 50, a very old camera. This is only cropped also.

This is blooming in the garden. A whole bunch of this came up in the mulched soil where we left the ground fallow over winter. I am guessing it is what I have heard the elders call a "dry land cress." Actually, it looks like the "True Watercress" in my field guild but that is only supposed to bloom from April on and should be near or in springs and streams, not in the compost in the garden.

We buried Uncle C.

Yesterday, my husband's aunt came in with his cousins. Uncle C. died on Sunday, in Georgia, where they lived. But he was from Fincastle originally and wanted to be buried in Godwin Cemetery (which is where the above picture was taken).

I only met Uncle C. a few times. He was a pilot for a major airline and the family did not come home to Botetourt often. I like my husband's cousins and his aunts; they all welcomed me most graciously into the family.

Uncle C. was cremated in Georgia, and they held a memorial service there. Then they all came north to us.

Aunt N. had a graveside service for her husband of 52 years. The day was partly cloudy and quite cold. It is always windy and cold up on the hill in Godwin Cemetery, even in July. I bundled up and had on ear muffs, thankfully, or I could not have withstood it. As it was, several of the older folks were visibly shivering and many of us huddled together for warmth.

The preacher came from Georgia with Aunt N. and gave a nice eulogy and the prerequisite sermon to save our souls. Unfortunately, considering the cold of the day, it seemed rather long-winded. But as I told my husband later, we all deserve our last words, however cold it may be when they're said.

Uncle C. had served in the Air Force, so an honor guard attended. A buglar played taps while two other servicemen unfolded a flag and then refolded it. We could not figure out the symbolism of this, but my husband finally decided that because there was no casket and no place to drap the flag, they unfolded and refolded. Perhaps some serviceman reading this knows?

Afterwards, with feet so cold we cold scarcely walk from the hilltop, we trooped down to the meeting room in the church for a luncheon and get-together. There were about 65 of us, a nice number, I thought, considering how long it's been since Uncle C. lived in the area. Many of the folks in town remembered him and came to pay their respects.

Funerals are sad times, but they are also about the only times families get together anymore. The days of cousins twice-removed who know one another are about gone. These days you could be marrying your cousin and not even know it, we're so scattered about.

Farewell, Uncle C. Rest peacefully.

My guitars

This is a Gibson Les Paul. I think it was made in the early 1970s. My parents gave it to me as a Christmas present in the late 1980s. It is an electric guitar, for those who might not know.

This is a Yamaha acoustic guitar. My paternal grandfather gave it to me in 1980. It is rather beat up but is my favorite.

I also have a Takamani classical guitar, an Epiphone electric guitar, and an Alvarez acoustic guitar. I bought the Takamani in the late 1980s, when I was taking lessons. I received the Epiphone as a Christmas present from my parents when I was 14. My mother gave me the Alvarez in June of 2000, just before she died in August.

The Alvarez is a nice guitar but a little big for me.

I actually can play the guitar, and I used to play it very well. I don't play as much as I once did. Actually I play about twice a year and that means, really, that I don't play at all.

Sometimes I really miss playing, but I've no one to make music with, no one to spur me on to move forward with it. When I feel mellow, I pick it up and maybe eek out a few sounds. But of course I am rusty and it doesn't take long for my fingers to start hurting.

Once I thought of going professional, and I used to play in a rock band when I was in high school. At 18 I headed off for a college in Tennessee to major in music at my parents' insistence, but I lasted only two days there before I packed everything up and came back home. I did not want to major in music, I wanted to major in English at Hollins, which is what I eventually did.

The guitars take up a lot of space in the closet. When I am cleaning, I sometimes think I should get rid of three of them. Who needs five guitars?

But I never get beyond thinking about it. It is hard to let go.

Hodge Podge

I'm having a difficult time finishing a story, a phenomenon that generally happens when I really care about the substance of the article and want it to read like the best thing ever written.

Generally I do better when I don't feel like I must write a prize-winner. That's way too much pressure. So I'm taking a little break to regroup before I venture back to the story.

***
Yesterday, I had a gusher of a nose bleed, the worst I believe I've ever had. Having spent the last week sniffling and clearing my throat, I can't say I am surprised. This morning I had extremely dark circles under my eyes. I looked like I'd been hit, which I had not.

My ear is bothering me, too. I am not experiencing vertigo but I am a little out of balance.

***
My evening will be long as I must attend a meeting. I am already cooking dinner and it's only 2:30 p.m., because I will be leaving at 5:30 p.m. I don't expect to get back before midnight, to be honest. The meeting officials told me to bring my pajamas to the meeting, if that says anything. It was a joke, of course.

***
My husband's uncle died Saturday after a bought with lung cancer. Uncle C. generally refused treatment, I have been told (he lives out of state) but he lasted much longer than anyone expected even if he had had conventional therapies. Since my mother died of cancer, I am quite afraid of that Big C word, but I try not to worry about it. My dream is to die in my sleep when I'm very old, but I also know few people really go out that way. My mother was only 56 when she died. But my grandmothers are both still alive, and in their mid-80s. I hope I am more like them than my mother, at any rate.

***
I have not purchased a new video game since this time last year. That was FABLE on XBox, which I never finished. That's because I developed vertigo and found playing the game made me dizzy. I like RPG games where I get to be the first-person character, and I prefer a first person game like MORROWIND to something in third person, like FABLE. (It has to do with how you see the game - in Fable, you see the character running around, in Morrowind, you just see the ground in front of you, as if you were seeing it with your own eyes.)

I really like video games and have lost many hours playing them. At present I am just playing with The Sims 2, because I don't have anything new. I also have told myself I cannot put anything on my computer.

I desperately want to play Morrowind: Oblivion, but I don't have an XBOX 360 and I suspect it would crash my computer. Plus I have told myself I cannot buy a new video game until I've written a book.

So it might be a really long time before I get a new video game.

My first game system was an Atari, and the game on it was Pong, I think, if that tells you how long I've been playing. I was a very weird girl. I can't think of how much money I've spent over the years on video games. Probably as much as on books.

Am I a Stump?

Years ago, I attended a lecture by Sharon McCrumb, a local author who's "made it." This was when she writing her ballad novels, and at the time I had not read a single one (I've since listened to a couple as books on tape). In fact, I had attempted to read her first book and found it so difficult to stay with that I had abandoned it.

But she was published and winning awards, so she must have been doing something right. She once was a columnist for one of the newspapers I was writing for at the time. She went on to bigger and better things. I wanted to see how she did it.

So I went to the lecture at the Blue Ridge Library. She evidently made quite an impression, as I recall much about her talk. For one thing, she believed the Blue Ridge Mountains were part of a larger chain of the mountains of Scotland, separated by the Atlantic by seismic activity or something. Since I'd long heard from my Irish and Scottish ancestors that the area reminded them of home, I had no trouble believing this.

Then the talk turned to writing. She said it takes great dedication to write a novel (I should think so). If I'm remembering this correctly, (and I may not be) she said she sent out a book synopsis and received a positive response. But she had to turn in some number of pages or her first draft, perhaps, and so she had to do all of this writing. I presume she had a deadline to meet.

She said she sat crying and writing one Halloween because she could not be with her child during the trick-or-treat part. She had to work while her family was enjoying themselves. The idea was, then, that if you're not ready to completely deny everything else to meet the deadlines, then you're not ready to write a novel.

Or at least, that is what I took away from that talk.

Over the years, I've wondered if this is why I am very good at shorter things, like news articles (or blog entries) but not so good at sticking with something longer. I don't put the longer works first. I put my husband first, actually. And that means keeping up the house and the laundry and fixing dinner, and trying to have an income to contribute to the household. The income part means writing short little articles, because I know I can pay the bills with those.

So maybe I am not a novelist.

But there is also a part of me that thinks that an hour spent with your child during trick-or-treating would have stopped the flow of tears and wouldn't have made that much difference in any piece of work. How many words can you write in an hour, after all, particularly if you're that upset? Isn't there some line between sacrifice and living?

I have written a novel. I have two completed in the drawer; neither will probably ever see the light of day. And I've started several and not finished them, for whatever reason. Sometimes I lose interest, and if I've lost interest, I suspect my reader will too, so I boot that one out.

I write a lot. I write about 250 articles a year. My blog entries, if you put them in MS Word, run into hundreds of pages. I have journals piled in closets, bits of poetry stashed about. It is not that I don't write.

It is what I am writing. I am searching for something here, some answers, maybe even the questions.

I think I am searching for what it is I really want. I am searching, maybe, for the way to find out how to even begin that search.

My new Canon Camera

At noon today, I ventured outside and found a dandelion growing in my garden. On January 6, 2007. When it should be snowing.

I took this at 7:45 a.m. this morning. I have a thing about light and sky and clouds. . . .

Took this at noon, too. The silo is visible from my office window and I look at it all the time.

This is the cabin, or what's left of it, beside the house. I took this shot with the Canon on automatic.

I took this shot of the same thing with the no-more Kodak in early December, I think. Which do you like best?

Best of all, this morning, I pointed the Canon at the moon, and clicked. And what do you know. I shot the moon.

Bye Bye, Pretty Boy

I came home around 5:15 p.m. to find the pick up truck of one of my husband's friends in the driveway. He was hunting.

Just before dark, there was a shot.

My husband called to alert me that his friend had shot our crippled deer. Pretty Boy was dead.

Don't go outside, he advised.

Unfortunately, I was on my way to town to run an errand that could not wait. As I went out to the car, I could see the truck headlights, next to the fence. Pretty Boy had been close by, near the house (though not too near). I felt a pang as I wondered if he'd been up here where he thought he was safe. The night was heavy with the coming darkness and the hint of rain, and I was sure I could smell the foul metallic scent of blood on the air. I scurried into my car and headed out.

Later, my husband said his friend told him the deer had been shot, "by some dumbass hunter" who went after a young buck. None of our hunters shoot young small antlered deer and we don't allow it, anyway. Bucks have to be a certain size to qualify for a shot, and Pretty Boy wasn't big enough.

Pretty Boy gave me much joy. I loved seeing him in the backyard, nose to the ground as he snarfed up acorns. I enjoyed our "talks" during warm summer nights. He was not a pet, but he was as close to having a pet as I have had in many years.

Farewell Pretty Boy. It'll be a long time before I name another deer.

An update on Pretty Boy

Pretty Boy is a little buck that was running around our house for most of the summer. I named him after seeing him so often and because I would stop the car, roll down the window, and talk to him. He seemed unafraid and curious. I took this photo in late August.

I hadn't seen Pretty Boy much since hunting season in November. It's not unusual, though, for the deer to roam far and wide during the mating season. Plus, well, it was hunting season. And while I knew no one who was hunting our farm had killed Pretty Boy, that didn't mean some of the neighbors had not.

Pretty Boy still lives, but he has been wounded. My husband saw him Wednesday morning for the first time, and he was limping badly. His right front leg is dangling uselessly from his body.

Muzzle-loading season is in until this Saturday. I think if my husband sees Pretty Boy again, he will shoot him to put him out of his misery. The entire shoulder looked swollen when I happened across him in the driveway and saw him by the car lights last night. It was all I could do to keep from crying as I watched him limp away. It broke both our hearts to see this little buck looking so pitiful as he tried to manuever the fields.

We don't know if he was hit by a car or hit with a bullet. Maybe he just misstepped and broke his leg in a hole. But most likely, from the looks of his leg and shoulder, he is full of infection and will die anyway. Mother Nature just generally is not kind to her charges when they've fallen prey to misfortune.

This is just "one of those things" and part of life, but it still tugs at my heart. I should never have named him and singled him out. Doing so just makes it feel very personal.

The old and the new

I met this morning with a former client, who is, for a little while, a client again. He called before the holidays, saying he needed some assistance.

I'd helped him for several years with his project, which officially ended last spring. He has written a book, which he calls a textbook. It's filled with facts and stats and I know a lot more about a particular war than I ever dreamed I would know.

The book is not exactly dreadful but neither does it offer up much new information, which I suppose is primary for a nonfiction book. Of course there is little new information because my client used mostly secondary sources. I think he has about four footnotes in the entire 550+ page tome that are primary sources.

The kicker is my client is in his 80s. He is a kindly old gentleman, very much the southerner with polite manners and a pleasing drawl. Without giving too much away, not because he knows anything about the Internet but his children or grandchildren might, he was once a leader of grand proportion in this area of the country. And I suppose in some circles he still is a leader. He has a commanding presence and an indomitable spirit, and I imagine in his younger days he was a very handsome man. I am truly honored to have been a helper to him and I have learned a great deal from my time with him.

However, the work was downright painful for me. For years - yes, really, years - our twice-weekly work sessions went like this: he sat on the sofa while I sat, pen poised over a legal pad, in a wing-backed chair that killed my back. He would not use a tape recorder, nor could I use a laptop or anything else because it created a barrier between us that he did not like. He wanted my full attention.

He sat, thinking, for long interminable minutes, sometimes as much as a quarter hour. Many times I dozed, waking with a start as my head lolled. Sometimes I wrote scraps of poetry, but I could not get too far off in my thoughts because at any moment he would erupt into dictation. Occasionally it would be such a long time that I would fear he had stopped breathing, and I would begin peering at him. I would be greatly relieved when I could see his nose hairs twitching, a sure sign that he had inhaled.

I was not his first "secretary," but when I picked up this task (thinking it would be more editorial work than personal secretary, I assure you) I think he had about 250 pages of words. He added (he very seldom subtracts) much more information. Every time he found a new book, he would find new facts to place in his story. Over the years, he sent the thing off to one publisher, who turned him down, and then another, who also turned him down, and yet another, who did the same.

In our last year of working, that is to say, 2005, my patience lapsed, not in the least because I was bored out of my skull. I also had many other things on my mind, as I was working on my Master's (which I have not completed) and freelancing, and when he called me back in early 2006 for some wrap-up work (like we're doing now) I was ill. I was - and still am - certain that his house, which is musty and moldy because it is an older home, under the trees, was a contributing factor to the allergies that flared up so badly last year that I thought I might die from them.

I never told him I was miserable but I suppose he could sense it and our time together petered out, because I lost interest totally and the book was, as best I could tell, as finished as it was going to be. Having decided that the book was never going to sell, and that he would never turn his attention to another more exciting project (I do wish he'd write his memoirs), I found the work even more difficult, and I did not feel it ended well. I was, however, glad it ended.

Of course, a large part of what he was paying me for was my company, because I can carry on a decent conversation, and could match him with observations about the political climate in the valley, or most anything else, for that matter. But that eventually became a chore too, because I wasn't feeling well.

I kept in touch with him last year, calling him twice just to see how he was getting along. I don't dislike him, after all, and he has been kind to me. His call asking me for assistance wasn't completely unexpected, as he'd hinted at it the last time we spoke, in September.

I thought he had given up, with the submission last spring, but he now has yet another publisher's name. He told me this morning that he wants to make minor corrections and send it out yet again. About 12 hours work, all told, perhaps.

I can do this.

Things were a little different this morning. He was prepared for me, with notes in hand, and we sat at the kitchen table (thank goodness) instead of on the sofa and the wing back chair. The house still smells musty and old, but hopefully my (very expensive) allergy medication will keep whatever that might stir up at bay. And while I had some moments of utter silence whilst I stared out the window and watched two squirrels go at it on a branch while he thought about something, it was, for the most part, work.

And I much prefer to work, but honestly, I'd probably help the old guy out just because.

Year of Wonders

Last night I finished reading Year of Wonders, by Geraldine Brooks. This is a book about the bubonic plague in 1666 and the residents of one town who chose, for the most part, to cut itself off the rest of the world.

My book club is reading this book. I would never have chosen it on my own, thinking the subject matter too dreary and depressing. That would have been a mistake, for this is a great book.

The narrator is Anna Frith. She's a servant to the rector and his wife. She comes into her own during this time of crisis and learns a great deal about herself and humanity. Brooks brings us the best and worst of people.

Even though this is set in 1666, I had no trouble seeing the characterizations. During any time of severe strain and trauma, there are heroes, and there are those who would take advantage of the situation. Brooks minces no words, yet there is always hope.

Great writing. Good story. Highly recommended reading.

2007

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Homeownership Part II

So last night Husband, at 9:30 p.m., said he thought he had the sink fixed. He started working on it at 11 a.m., and with only breaks to run to the hardware store for parts and dinner, he thought he had it licked.

I was most relieved, as he had been angry the entire day with a most foul temper because he could not wrangle the wayward plumbing into doing his bidding.

So last night we stared at the plumbing under the sink a while. No leaks. He shut the hot water off anyway (that was the line that was leaking) and we trundled off to bed.

Snore. Snore.

This morning, still no leaks. He went off to work on the old house he is restoring. I ran the dishwasher and took my time about things, it being Sunday. Not to mention I still have a really bad sore throat and a fever.

Around 11, I stood talking on the phone to a friend. The doors to the sink cabinet were still open, and I glanced down.

A dark spot.

I grabbed up the flashlight and looked.

Drip.

. . .

Drip.

. . .

I put a little shallow pan under it and closed the doors.

Homeownership

For some reason, husband decided today to fix the leak under the sink.

The sink has leaked for years. Really. I just kept dumping a little pan.

But I forgot about it over the holidays and it overflowed and he was reminded that he'd never fixed this.

So today was the day to fix it.

He's been in there since 11 a.m. (it's 2 p.m. now) and he's cussed and fussed and . . . there is still a leak.

Actually, now there are two of them.

He's off to the hardware store for some parts. Whew. But he has all the water turned off so I can't finish the laundry. Or the dishes. Rats.

It's one of the great things about owning a home. You have all of this stuff to fix. You could work on it 24/7 and never be done.

I spent the morning tracking down a source of mildew. I can smell mildew (which apparently is not common, no one else seems able to smell it) and I smelled it this morning. I finally found some mildew around the caulking in a window. I cleaned that up with bleach and then put some bathtub mildew-proof caulking around the window. This window never gets sunlight so I am not surprised it has a little mildew on the caulking. I will have to keep an eye on it, though.

My throat was sore this morning when I woke and I am running a little fever. I think now it might be time for me to take a break and try to rest, since I seem to be catching something.

The shape of 2007

Sunset, December 28, 2006

So, here is how 2007 is shaping up:

1) We have to complete renovations on the old house my mother left me and find a new tenant. Most of this is falling on my husband. The stress of it reverbrates off our relationship, however.

2) One of my old clients, an elderly man writing a WWII book, has contacted me about assistance. I will see what he wants early in the year. I don't expect it to be a lengthy assignment but whatever it is, he generally pays well.

3) My fiction writing is suffering terribly. I would really like to finish writing a book of some kind before the end of the year. Or a short story. Anything would be welcome at this point.

4) I so far have no plans to return to Hollins University to continue working on my Master's Degree. I need four classes and a thesis to finish. I also need thousands of dollars. Perhaps by summer. Or maybe the fall. What's another year in a lot of years, anyway?

5) Aside from not biting my nails, my other resolutions include weight loss (who does not have that as a resolution?), eating healthy, and building on my exercise program. The eating healthy includes not eating wheat, oats or milk products, all of which contribute to my allergy issues, and adding more root-type vegetables to my diet. The exercise includes the 20-40 minutes I do every morning and adding another 15-20 minutes (or more) in the evening. Of course, all of this hopefully will contribute to the weight loss.

6) I have so far not set goals for my career this year. I need to do this so I will have something to aim for. It could be writing more articles, adding markets, or focusing on something else, like the novel. But whatever it is, I need to take it seriously and not let it slide by me. So I am giving this one a lot of thought. Maybe I should take an online writer's course with a goal of having a completed something or another when I'm done.

7) The bathroom needs to be painted in our house. Also, in the kitchen, wallpaper needs to be removed and then some painting done on two walls. If I can get that accomplished, our house should not need much attention for a few years, as far as such things go, unless another Dr. Pepper bottle explodes in the kitchen.

8) I would like to plant a bigger garden. I'm not sure I want to can or put up pickles, but it would be nice to have the option because of an abundance of vegetables.

9) I also want to plant fruit trees and start an orchard. I think that has to wait until next fall, now, though. This is something I need to look into.

10) I am building a website for my husband, called Septic Tank Advisor. He installs septic tanks as his third job. I need to finish this as quickly as I can. It is very much a work in progress.

11) If I do okay with the septic website, I want to see about building a website for myself.

12) I would like to find a way to ease some of my husband's burdens. Aside from magically making more money to help out with the bills, I don't know of any thing else to do. Of course, most of what I see as a burden, in particular the farm work, are the things he loves to do so he doesn't seem them in the same light. I just wish he wouldn't work so hard.

My present: Nail Biting

I'm sorry to say that these hands belong to me.

I am a nail biter.

I have at times managed to stop for over a year or more at a time. I started biting them again this summer, reason unknown. I wasn't particularly stressed or anything. I have been unable to stop.

The only way I have been able to control this in the past is constant attention to my nails. Lots of buffing and filing and an all-out effort to keep them smooth. But the tools I was using, something I bought at a women's show about 15 years ago, have worn out and they don't smooth and work like they once did.

I have been unable to find anything similar to replace them. Nothing I can buy in the stores works as well.

I am fairly sure that nail-biting adds to my susceptibility to germs and viruses and other bad little creepy crawly things.

One of my resolutions for the new year is to stop biting my nails - again. I know I will never have beautiful hands but there is no need for them to look as bad as they do. Maybe these pictures will give me pause, and help me to stop chewing on my hands.

The Past

This ad came from an old Fincastle Herald, 1949, the beginning of the year. It is an advertisement for my husband's grandfather's store. Check out the prices.

25 POUNDS of sugar for $2.19.

Salad Dressing, $0.39 a quart.

Coffee $0.64 a pound.

Imagine if stuff cost that today, and you still earned what you earned today. Of course back then a dollar went a lot further than it does today. I can drop $100 in Walmart without blinking if I'm not careful.

The Evil Squirrel

I call this my "evil squirrel" picture. This squirrel has black on the places other squirrels have white sometimes. And then I have another squirrel that is piebald, with much white and only a little darker coloring. That one is hard to get a photo of, though.

It's been a quiet day. Husband is at the firehouse. I was at Lowe's before 9 a.m. this morning to purchase materials for the rental house renovation. We have an old home I inherited that we are fixing up. There was a good sale going on for some things we required so I was off to make this big purchase. Husband will have to pick up the materials in his pick up tomorrow.

Then to Wally World, right next door. Here I found Xmas things 50 percent off, so I spent the prerequisite $100 in there. Not just on wrapping paper and cards, but mostly. It certainly seemed to come to $100 much more quickly than I had anticipated, anyway.

Back home to unload. The remainder of the afternoon was pittered away with putting up decorations, cleaning, and tearing the tickets off clothes so I could put them in the wash.

I have been content and peaceful. It is a good day.

December 25

Prayer for Peace

Today's Headlines

Drunken driver takes five lives
Sanctions on Iran
A baby dies, a mother cries
another government ban.

Higher bills to heat the house
A child left in the street
A new class war, man killed a whore,
There's not enough to eat.

The union strikes, a man's on fire
Thoughts on the Middle East
Shooting victims, drug addictions
birth of the Prince of Peace.
****

Today we begin our celebrations of the birth of the lord we call The Prince of Peace.

One day without pain, suffering, heartache. It seems like not much to ask, that for only a day the toils and troubles cease, that we all have respite from the suffering.

All around us, we have every indication of a world gone mad, of things fatally and painfully wrong. Who among us can read the paper without flinching?

It seems to me that peace must start within each of us, within our own souls. We alone can find the solitude and quiet we must nurture within, for hearts at peace do not find ways to force suffering upon others.

If we tend to our own lives first, care for our selves, then our ability to reach out to others manifests into a greater good. We can extend love and help someone else find the way, once we have the way found ourselves.

My prayer for peace is for peace within us all, so that we may all rest and be quiet.

God Bless and Amen.

Christmas Eve

So this is it, 2006 Christmas. And another year nearly gone.

I will spend my Christmas Eve without my husband, who today is acting battalion chief at the firehouse in the city. Apparently among the men this means there will be some action, as it seems a legend that whenever he rides the car, there's smoke showing. I hope that this proves untrue for once.

My aunt C., my grandmother, my cousin M. and his wife and newborn child, and possibly my uncle J., with or without his wife and children, will be down around 1 p.m. They will, presumably, visit my mother's grave and then come here to visit me. I have planned cheese and crackers, beans & franks, pig in the blanket, and lots of cookies, to feed them all.

Another friend, C. from the paper, has said she will stop by after 3 p.m. I expect no one else though harbor some slight and painful hope that my brother may decide to peer down from his mansion on the hill long enough to visit. That is doubtful, however.

But enough of that. It is Christmas Eve. A magical day. A special night. A time for the spells of wonderous designs to shape themselves and work their particular enchantments.

Go forth, be enchanted.