Ice Land

At 8 a.m. when I let the dogs back in after their morning frolic in the backyard I just stood in the doorway shivering uncontrollably. I scuttled to the computer and checked My Yahoo weather; it was exactly 0 degrees Fahrenheit.

I used to live on tropical islands, longing for air conditioning on sweltering southwest monsoon afternoons. Then I fell for a guy who insisted he could only be happy where there were four distinct and consecutive seasons. Ken really relished January, lolling on his recliner, watching his beloved westerns, exerting himself only to beam and announce, "I just love it here."

I'm not so sure I'd agree today. I'm too cold to think, let alone write, so I'll soon swaddle myself with quilts and finish T. R. Reid's "The Healing on America," for one book group and begin Tom Wolfe's "A Man in Full" for another. It should be warmer, albeit snowier, tomorrow. At least My Yahoo tells me so.

If my fingers thaw, over the next couple of weeks I plan to write:

1. A tribute to Peter S. Beagle, author of The Last Unicorn, for Uncle Jam.
2. A story about what makes me happy...two possible markets in mind.
3. A memoir about son Steve's wedding...and how I nearly missed it.
4. The aforementioned essay on happiness.

These trees in today's posted photo are in my side yard. They are what I gaze at when I'm working on the laptop in the backroom. Tomorrow their branches will be laden with snow once again. And it will be warmer.