19 degrees

Thanksgiving was lovely, thank you; 18 of us gathered around 3 tables (although this is rather a small group for this area, where everyone I talk to seems to have had more company). A game of 42 was constantly going on, and sometimes more than one--I even joined in one for amateurs. We made short work of all 11 pies, even though there were other leftovers to consider, too. The Dallas Cowboys won, and Texas lost, and the Sooners beat the Cowboys (I know most of y'all don't really care; just interpret: we were happy.) I went for walks in the beautiful fresh 74-degree country air, and sang very loudly in an attempt to prevent any chances of being shot as a deer. I think there were some hunters who were about ready to shoot me to make me be quiet, but they restrained themselves.

Today, however, if it is lovely, is only for the sake of cancelling work and staying inside with Jane Austen and hot chocolate. Every once in a while, I glance out the window to make myself more thankful for not being there. There is white; but most of it is whirling like a snow globe in the hands of an excited two-year old. More than an inch (if that) of our projected 5-8 may be outside, but it won't settle long enough for us to find out. It is enough, though, to cancel school across the state, for companies to tell their employees not to come to work, for us to be thankful we don't have any Canadians around to see the local news coverage that is almost enough to convince one we're in the middle of a blizzard from "The Long Winter." Enough for the Boys to say that they should get out of school (and beg to go outside to play football in the snow--and actually to ask me, drinking hot coffee in my pajamas and slippers under a pile of afghans to go, too--"It's great! You don't have any traction, and you're slipping all over the place..."). Cold enough for me to suggest sending hot chocolate and cookies to the mailman, and too cold for my nice thoughts to be turned into actions. Cold enough that the dog must romp in the snow, and shake himself off when he comes in, curling up on the heater vent or a stack of afghans or the nearest convenient human. Enough, in short, to make me quite certain that summer is my absolutely favorite season. But enough, too, to be quietly happy in the hominess of home in winter.

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(for the many who I am sure miss my bad jokes--or at least miss me (?). I had another one the other day, but alas! It is lost to the world forever, by reason of my having forgotten it. I'm sure it was hilarious...)

Q: What do you call a snowman whose middle section has been over-rolled?

A: An Abdominable Snowman

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Winter: My Secret

I tell my secret? No indeed, not I:
Perhaps some day, who knows?
But not today; it froze, and blows and snows,
And you're too curious: fie! You want to hear it? well:
Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.

Or, after all, perhaps there's none:
Suppose there is no secret after all,
But only just my fun.
Today's a nipping day, a biting day;
In which one wants a shawl,
A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:
I cannot ope to everyone who taps,
And let the draughts come whistling thro' my hall;
Come bounding and surrounding me,
Come buffeting, astounding me,
Nipping and clipping thro' my wraps and all.
I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows
His nose to Russian snows
To be pecked at by every wind that blows?
You would not peck? I thank you for good will,
Believe, but leave the truth untested still.

Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust
March with its peck of dust,
Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,
Nor even May, whose flowers
One frost may wither thro' the sunless hours.

Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or you may guess.

~Christina Rossetti