Tonight there is a ring around the moon, an aura or halo. It is huge. Raise your hands above your shoulders like you are giving praise to God. Then spread your arms a little. That's how wide the aura looks from where we are. I can't tell if it is in space, "millions of miles away," as John said, or just in our atmosphere, a parting of clouds. In either case, the luminous perfect circle seems immediately above our heads, just as the aurora borealis did last fall.

It snowed and sleeted today. The planties in the cold frame are still growing nonetheless. In the afternoon the weather was gorgeous, windy and clear and fresh.

I've put my father's photograph in our living room. It's the first time since he died (that I remember) that I've had his photo on display. It is very nice to see him smiling at me as I walk by. I never thought of a photo as having such power, nor did I think the sight of my long-dead father's face could give me comfort and joy. John says he is glad to see my Dad's face up there.

Today at my first visit to a chiropractor in Lake Placid he went through the regular series of medical questions: he asked if I had children. No. Had I ever been pregnant? Yes. "Oh," he said quite kindly and sympathetically, "you lost it." It was not a question. I now know the language to use up here about that particular personal/political thing.

Quote of the day: "Peepers and mud... You're rich!" --Bunny LeClair, neighbor

Things that happened in the last 24 hours:

I hung laundry out to dry, then there was a thunderstorm; the temperature got up to the 70s: all these things for the first time since last fall.

John got the Pathfinder stuck in the mud. He drove out back to the field to get some large tree stumps for around our fire pit. He felt the Nissan fall into a sink hole and tried to power out of it but couldn't. A neighbor with a Jeep and a winch got the truck out.

I started a cold frame of vegetables, flowers and herbs.

We learned that our orange cat Bean has more than once been caught in our neighbor's skunk trap, which would explain Bean's occasional overnights.

I made an 81st birthday card for Nana, John's grandmother, and a thank you card for Mark, our postmaster who took us on a boating trip on Saranac Lake last week.

We watched "Winged Migration," which is tremendous.

Note to the creator of Shitbegone toilet paper (www.shitbegone.com)

Dear Jed,

I lived in Williamsburg, Bklyn when Shitbegone first snuck onto the shelves of local minimarts (1999? 2000?) I got my first rolls at the bodega across the street from Iona bar, corner of Grand and Bedford. The Spanish-speaking proprietors were confused by my laughter when I saw the product. I sent my mother, who has a colostomy, a roll and she adored it. Having a colostomy, she had no need to consume the toilet paper, and she still proudly displays it as her own personal poo joke. Back in Williamsburg I, and presumably others, kept buying the rolls until the bodegas no longer stocked them. "No, we don't carry that any more," they said, as if they had discovered a cruel joke had been played upon them. In a way, I guess it had.

Now I live on a farm in the Adirondacks where people don't have senses of humor like they do in NYC. Here there is a lot of shit from animals that weigh as much as taxis, and peoples' septic tanks--including mine--back up, producing more shit. From my point of view this means even more need for Shitbegone toilet paper.

I display my last roll of Shitbegone in my country kitchen, along with an empty carton of Homo Milk from Quebec. No one of our new local friends yet has reacted. Perhaps they are blind, or they think my taste is beneath comment.

Would love to know when your website upgrade and new merchandise are ready. Thanks for creating a classic.

Martha

At lunch today Rachel and Rebekah were saying how Selden birthed two lambs this morning. At that moment John Doan came to the table with a plate heaped with a large, dark hunk of meat and bone. “There’s lamb up there if you want it,” he said. I thought that the lamb on his plate was one of the ones Selden birthed this morning. I thought she caught the lamb, gave it to the kitchen, and here it was on John's plate. I nearly threw up. Folks teased me for a second but then said the lamb was from another source. Even so, I had to leave the table. This is akin to when my neighbor said he was selling his sled, and I saw a flexible flyer in my mind’s eye. I went to his basement to see the sled and there was a behemoth snow machine that holds two people, has a cooler and a stereo…

A gorgeously sunny but frigid day. Spent much time planning our garden and thinking about eating our own produce throughout the winter. Also have in mind plenty of flowers and herbs, both perennial and annual. The gardens' success will depend on a few things: our ability to till the soil, the qualities of the soil (former pasture, so we assume it's good,) the hardiness of the plants in this silly climate and against the prevailing southeast wind that comes up our valley, and the black flies. I am afraid of the black flies. Is it possible that they are the scourge everyone says they are? I dread them. I plan to drape a sunhat with gauze and be out there gardening despite the little munchers. I will go through the novice gardener's trial of weeding - am I killing a treasure and saving a piece of trash?

What else is planted on our land? We saw it in early spring and again in mid-summer. There are vast stands of lilacs, hundred-year-old lilacs. There are a few clumps of plants that were clearly placed intentionally but I have no idea what they are now. There was a huge swath of yellow flowers planted inside one of the barn foundations, and some tiger lilies. Trees -- ancient maples, a handful of fruit trees, a fir and a bunch of shade trees I can't name.

Read a comparison the other day that is much better than "apples and oranges": "cheese and chalk." Unless one wants to compare like things. Then it would be "Gouda and Gruyere."

This evening we're going to see "The Sound of Music" at the local high school. Paul J has some leadership role in producing it.

Note to friends in response to today's New York Times article that Ruth Simmons, President of Brown University is leading the institution through a process to examine its history of involvement with slavery:

This is so beautiful! Years ago I met a distant relative whose great-great-grandparents were owned by my great-great-grandparents. I was already deeply involved in social justice work, but that chance meeting brought it home like a frying pan to my forehead. I wonder how many of us would have the bravery and humility to do personally what Brown's trustees and Ruth Simmons (former Smith president, I might add) have the courage to lead Brown through.

These days I might grumble and groan at my tight financial situation, but I also know that every advantage I've had throughout my life is STILL, despite my father's early disinheritance, due in part to a legacy of the resources built up by slaves.

Emails to a friend who is in the hospital:

Dear T,

As S may have told you, John and I have Cruiser for the weekend. Last night I picked him (Cruiser) up and he hopped confidently into the backseat of my car. At first he kind of slouched his butt against the door, and then soon lay down for a snooze. I stopped at the Stewart's to get some Budweiser because Roger is coming over today to work on reunion things with me, and as I left the car Cruiser gazed through the windshield at me with his great droopy dark eyes. My heart feels warm just thinking about it. I love that he knows who I am and trusts me.

Anyway, I brought him home and he was cautious at first, not sure of John, who it turns out was not sure of Cruiser. Somehow John had gotten the impression that Cruiser is a mean scary dog. I talk about C often so I don't know where John got that idea. Cruiser walked around the first floor sniffing things. I'd like to think his nose is sensitive enough to recognize your smell even though you've only been here a few times. Thank goodness for my poor housekeeping! I told him I was so glad he was here but wished it was his mom instead.

I made supper and Cruiser observed. John was on the couch watching TV. Two of our three cats made cautious forays into Cruiser's space, and he was absolutely charming to them. He dropped his head, was as still as he could be, his big nose quivering, his tail wagging ever so gently. One cat--Smidgen--actually touched noses with Cruiser the first hour he was here. Then they assumed détente. Cats upstairs, Cruiser downstairs, with cats making hourly rounds to sniff the air, display their fur and look wide-eyed, hurt, at John and me.

After supper John and I settled together on the couch for TV, and I invited Cruiser to join us. He leapt up quite gracefully for such a big beast, and at first was not interested in sitting on John, only me. He was as delicate as he could be but it is hard when you have big floppy paws and the humans are entangled together under an afghan. Soon, though, with John's caresses, Cruiser settled down onto both of us and was a big happy moosh.

Later I was cleaning up and getting ready for bed, and when I went in to the living room John and Cruiser were reclining together like two odalisques, totally absorbed in a hockey game. Or maybe John was absorbed and Cruiser was sleeping.

You are correct, of course--C hasn't braved the stairs. I have informed him that if he does come upstairs he may sleep in the bed with us, and I think the cats are hatching a secret nuclear weapon to prevent that from happening.

This morning John saw what he thinks is a wolf on the frozen river out front. Do you think we could have a wolf here? Maybe it was just a big fluffy coyote. Either way, I still haven't seen any coyotes myself and want to.

I'm off to the NCSPCA board meeting where I might see S. John is going to go for a long walk with Cruiser.

Big hug.







Dear T,

Well, it didn't take long for Cruiser to brave the stairs. This afternoon after our walk (which followed his and John's walk) I came up for a nap and with a little coaxing and sweet-talking Cruiser followed me up the stairs. He was perfectly coordinated about it. He required little encouragement to jump into bed and lie in my arms. He was only still for a moment before scootching around to say, "SCRATCH MY BELLY." Lick lick, snuffle snuffle, SCRATCH MY BELLY. Pretend to doze. SCRATCH ME! Moan, groan. PET ME! So much for the human nap. I told John things will never be the same between Cruiser and me again. We've lain together.

Our yard is now filling up with large poopies and messy spots where Cruiser has treated his face like a snow plow or rolled around in the fresh snow. He is a delight to have around.

He is also fine about going down the stairs. Maybe that is my contribution to your and Cruiser's quality of life. When you come home, he can do stairs.

Big hug,











Dear T,

There is so much life outside our house, all sorts of yawps and gurgles and hoots and honks. Some things I recognize--turkeys gobbling. Other things are mysterious--an intense babyish yipping in the hill behind our field. The river sound is getting louder. Earth smells like it might be coming back to life. Tonight there is a high-pitched rapid barking that echoes off the various hills and cliffs so the entire sky is filled with this sound. It's kind of ominous.

Yesterday evening John and I were relaxing at sunset and Cruiser was nosing around in the yard. John on the porch came into Cruiser's vision and Cruiser charged at him, all four paws off the ground. He must have flown six feet--Cruiser, that is. John was unfazed. Cruiser landed and came up to John all waggling and pushing his head against John's thigh.

This morning I dropped Cruiser and his water dish off at H and S's house. Ned, their black lab that is part helicopter, was overjoyed to see his buddy Cruiser, who seemed very happy, too, but did not bounce so high. I don't think S will let Cruiser visit us again--I think she thinks we spoiled him during our 48 hour lovefest. Perhaps you can put in a good word for us.

All sorts of dogs have taken to coming to the east end offices now that Cruiser is not there. Your giant box of biscuits is nearing its end--we'll have to get some more. Witherbee, Amy's gleaming grey puppy made his first appearance today in the company of Gannett, who is a daily mooch. Both boys sat politely and accepted a treat from me while I was on the phone with someone important. It's always fun when a serious conversation is interrupted by a WOOF! If the person is an alum they always sigh and say how they miss the place, and if it is someone else they say how they wished they worked in a place like this.

Here is my favorite poem:
Tell me, O Octopus, I begs,
Is those things arms or is they legs?
I marvel at thee, Octopus;
If I were thou, I'd call me Us.

By Ogden Nash.

Tomorrow morning I've got barn chores at NCS and John begins his alpaca-sitting duty at a local farm. Did you know that alpacas spit, and each beastie costs about $10,000? I probably told you that already. They only eat as much as a dog, they poop no more than a goat and always in the same neat little pile. Still, $10,000 for a large spitting mammal with only bottom teeth. I have yet to determine how you make a profit off them, but in the spirit of neighborliness we'll scrape their dainty poos into the wheelbarrow while the farmer is on vacation, feed their companion auracana chickens and take a few warm blue eggs, and bide our time. Who knows, maybe we'll become the next alpaca millionaires.

Thanks again for calling today. Sorry I was not in the spirit of chatting. Talk to you again soon, I hope. I'll be in Montréal at the NAIS conference from Weds. through Sat. but will try to email and will be thinking of you.

Oh, bliss -- warmth! I don't know the temperature, but it feels like summer. Went walking out in the field, across the ice of frozen stream and wetland, Cruiser at my side, Tsu's dog. Tsu is in the hospital sick with a suddenly revealed cancer. And Roger has just turned into our driveway. Is that Roger or someone else? Country life, new friends, warm sunny day. Ha!

Posted originally at www.toddp.com with photos.

Last night Todd, Ashley, a bunch of NCS students, my husband John and I all convened at the Saranac Lake Ice Palace. What a magical place! Magical is a trite word to describe a three-storey glimmering translucent witty frozen artistic sculptural architectural community marvel. I can speak only for myself, and I was suffused with joy. John gloried over discovering a tiny fish frozen in a block of ice the size of a Coleman cooler, and we all guffawed when someone pointed out the large words and arrow, writ in ice: FISH ---->

The ice could have been resin, it was so perfectly clear in spots, but the humid cold was proof of ice. Ah, how lovely.

You can check it out at http://www.saranaclake.com/carny.shtml Scroll down mid-page to see a slide show of construction.

Our solid H20 experience was preceded by a cozy hour in front of Mark's fireplace drinking hot cocoa and telling tall tales, and earlier in the afternoon a feast of kitchen-sink lasagna at John and my house, and the afternoon kicked off with Todd performing exploratory surgery on John and my computer network. As it turns out, shoelaces are not such effective UBS connectors.

I should probably post the above story in my own weblog but Todd has more readers and he hasn't told his own ice palace story yet, so let this be his introduction.

And today is a glorious, sunny Sunday!

Last night I fell down the basement stairs. John was down there fixing a window and from his point of view it happened in slow motion. I slipped, went "whoop!" then bump bump bump, he cried out, I said I'm ok! I'm ok! bump bump bump I'm ok! bump bump I'm ok! The whole way down I was crying out, "I'm ok!" He said he had three urges to go to my aid--but each time I said I was ok he paused. It happened in a flurry from my point of view. At the bottom I glimpsed a sturdy post and grabbed for it, thus ending my tumble and possibly saving me from serious injury. All the same, I sat there stunned, my butt, wrist and calf throbbing. John came to me and hugged me. I rested my head on his shoulder for a long moment.

This morning I am so sore.

The other night he woke me from a shrieking nightmare--I was dreaming that he decided he had never loved me, and I was enraged as well as grief-stricken. John woke me, pulled me into his arms, and said, "I have always loved you, I love you now and I will always love you."

What could be better than this relationship?

Transitioning into my office job this morning

By Martha Spear



Hay bales are heavy
Heavy bales hoisting
Makes me sweat, which is good, but—
Hay bales fall hard, I fall hard when tripping
Over hay bales
And cows are large, too large for tipping
But they sense weakness,
Trip me when they want the hay
So the bale and I flail in the stall
Amongst straw and frozen balls of poop
And the cows are happy munchers
Meaning no harm, even supplying
Sloppy kisses—they’d never hurt me.
Chores done, sweat drying, itches multiplying
There is hay in my bra.

Kerry v. Dean now. I remember the first Clinton campaign, the only campaign I was close enough to to think back on with personal fondness. I suppose people who cared for Kerrey or Tsongas, their staff and volunteers were upset as Clinton pulled out ahead. That didn't faze me at all--I was focused on two issues: keep abortion safe and legal, and make queer people visible. Clinton helped do both. Kerrey and Tsongas and the others who I forget now would have. It wasn't the individual candidate that mattered to me then, it was the issues. And I was so much younger then, so much less knowledgeable. I can't imagine now being a single-issue voter.

So Dean against Kerry. It doesn't matter to me except that I want to feel some affinity with the White House. I tried to write President Bush a letter the other day, but my email got lost in an Internet error and even though I pressed the "back" button it was gone. Oh well. What I was trying to say was that I considered voting for him because no one but he could clean up the mess he's made in Iraq and elsewhere. Everything else is done by committee, Senate, House, local, whatever. But this foreign policy, this world-ending Bible-prophecy-fulfilling stuff is at the hands of the deeply religious people like Bush. He and his father and Saddam Hussein.

Years ago, during that heady, wild 1991 year in fact, I remember a woman telling me that she had worked for a man high up in government. She had a highly classified job, she said, that gave her views she wished she'd never had. It made her a mess for the rest of her life, she said. She learned that the entire planet was run by twelve or so men. In the U.S. it didn't matter who held what office, really, she said. It was certain personalities and groups. I don't remember the details but do remember how believable she was.

Whoever wins this election, so be it. I will cast my vote because even though right now I feel totally disenfranchised from Federal government I know deep in my heart that every vote counts.

Am just back from a brisk hike into the woods behind our land. Is it mountain, is it hill? I am not sure. It is steep and I have not yet reached the top. When I first began exploring the land it was thick with trees, deeply rutted with what had clearly once been a single wagon road. There were also a few newer ATV trails. John and I liked the old footpath best. Now, since the loggers have been through it, there are twenty foot wide gouges from the gigantic, ungentle skidder. The vistas are huge--I saw Whiteface and other mountains I had not seen from that vantage point before. On the earth are crumbled, shredded tree bits. The earth itself is pale brown in places, gray in others--crumbly, frozen, glossed with thick ice from dammed rivulets. I strive not to be judgmental and to take this in with an open mind. This change in landscape is the result of local economy and generations-old skills. As a neighbor, Paul J., said, the cleared forest will become home to many birds as the shrubs and bracken can grow with more light and rain. The deciduous trees will dominate the scene and in fall will be even more spectacular.

It was a hard walk up because so steep and rutted. I took my time, pausing often to look around at animal tracks, wood shapes, snow light, ice rills. I composed poetry in my head, thinking that loggers and forest animals care not for views. But maybe those loggers pause, too, and gaze out at the awesome mountains with appreciation and humility.

The frozen streams were most beautiful. They looked in places so smooth that I could have sat and slid down the mountainside on my butt, but one quick slip on the trail and I remember that ice is HARD.

Came home, let Papi in--he had waited in the garage rather than come with me on a minus two degree walk--and then went across the road to stand on the Au Sable River. Heard pops and bubbles of water under ice. Am in love with my surroundings.

Today I went to the memorial service for Anne Trachtenberg Hughes, a neighbor and would-have-been friend and colleague. I only met her two weekends ago, which because of my recent business trip to DC feels like last weekend. She was a fund-raiser and board member, was incoming chair of the local SPCA, the board of which I am joining, partly because I met her and she gave me confidence in her leadership.

I'd been impressed by her happy home, filled with books and art and dogs. Her husband, Tom Hughes, is publisher of Adirondack Life magazine. Today at the service his grief and exhaustion were painful to observe but also somehow freeing--I had been mourning her as if I knew her, and seeing him relieved me of the burden of grief. Her lover and the church packed full of people grieve her. I would grieve John, or he me, if it had been either of us.

She slid off the road on black ice and died of massive head injuries. Because they had plans to marry in May on their twentieth anniversary, they were married in the hospital while she lay in the coma. Now he can say, "my wife died."

At the wake / reception I met a handful of strong women. That was a boon. The death of one strong woman opens my life to others.

The last time I was shocked and saddened so by the death of a person I did not know was when Ron Brown, Democratic Party bigwig who died in the 1990s, died in a plane wreck.

Happy New Year! The best quote of the holiday occurred today as Liza, Samantha, Cameron and I crossed the border from NY into Québec on our way to Montréal. Cameron, who was tremendously excited, burst out, "I can't believe I'm chewing GUM in CANADA!"

So much has happened and we've been so busy that every time I've thought of writing in here I've been discouraged. Therefore, there is no live newscast of this year's Spear Christmas. A few highlights:

John played Santa Claus at my school. Some of the littler children still believe in Santa, others have outgrown him, and still others don't know about him or are culturally distanced so there is no magic. After a rollicking meal filled with jokes, teasing, carols and games, the students were led into the song, "Here Comes Santa Claus," which is the cue to whoever is playing Santa that it's time to enter the dining room. John ho-ho-ho'd his way in and was a genial and warm Santa. The littlest kids sat on his lap and he charmed them. The older kids teased him, ("Santa, you're looking thin!" "Atkins diet," responded John.) I couldn't help myself, I was beaming like a bonfire. Someone later said she identified who Santa was by looking around the room and seeing my face.

Another holiday highlight--our septic tank backed up the day before Christmas Eve. It could have been much worse--what backed up was shower water, not poo. John handled it all with grace and cool. He got the local septic guys to come, three brothers whose family was formerly in logging. They located the tank with a minimum of digging and determined a couple of potentially troublesome things: our septic tank is very close to the house and is homemade--well-made but homemade, and one or two of the various pipes leading from it may empty directly into the river, or may not. Those things can be left for now. Our yard is now deeply rutted with backhoe tracks, one clump of shrubs has been torn up, but the septic tank is empty and ready for another twenty years of use. As John told the hamlet's postmaster, we didn't need that bill just now. The postmaster in turn was glad that the mischievous god Feceus had left his home and come to ours.

We visited a friend in Saranac Lake for drinks. This was very pleasant as he seems to be gay, and I at least have been starving for gayness up here in the mountains. I do understand that I will never again have the community that I did when I was with women, but even so, whatever I can get makes me feel good. We met second gay man from the area, also recently moved up from NYC, but older (retired) and well-to-do.

Carolers came to our house, led by Paul J., our neighbor and town social diva. They sang lustily and I gave them cookies, and they invited us to Wellscroft, a nearby mansion that is now a bed-and-breakfast the owner of which was one of the carolers. I finished a batch of green white chocolate mint cookies and we drove up the road to Wellscroft, where we danced and admired the spectacular woodwork, furnishings, architectural and art. Our hostess was as big a character as the mansion and probably as expensive to maintain.

We did barn chores for several days, and John did them Christmas morning while I slept in. The septic fiasco stole the money for my Christmas presents, thereby proving my theory that John always waits to the last minute to buy my presents. Sleeping in was part of the "princess-ing" he gave me instead, which also included a hot oil and salt bath with candles, a foot massage, and a promised full-body massage. I gave John a certificate entitling him to five sessions as apprentice to a master woodworker at my school. John will build an Adirondack chair for us and help Larry G. build his porch. I also gave John some warm comfy clothes from EMS. After he returned from barn chores I drove around to various neighbors delivering cookies and fudge and peeking at their Christmas mornings. That was VERY nice and resulted in an invitation from our next-door neighbors to come over in the evening, drink and play games. We accepted the invitation and had a great time. They have invited us for New Year's Eve. Wellscroft is also having a New Year's Eve party, which while not so close and easy will undoubtedly be more visually memorable. We'll see what other invitations come our way and maybe will do nothing at all, which is what we usually do on New Year's Eve.

John has been puttering around the house ticking off one item after another on his handyman list. I have been reading, resting, fooling around on the computer, cooking. We watched the movie "Orlando" last night, which gave me a joyful sense of homey queerness and lovely genderfuck.

I feel safe and content and easy. It is good to be home with my husband and best friend.

We've gotten whomped and it's still coming down. John and I spent about two hours shoveling this morning, just the front end of the driveway. He's talking about coming down to Boston this Friday to see Nana and get Uncle Frank's old snow blower. I can't come with him that quickly so will have a quiet weekend at home, which I always like.

The mammoth snow plow machines knocked off our mailbox. I climbed the snow to try to retrieve the mailbox and ended up falling flat on my face into about three feet of snow. I flailed around blindly. It was a little scary at first but then I started laughing. I had been sweating from shoveling so the snow that clung to my pants seemed to steam off and then freeze into ice.

I'm now indoors in my jammies. I have my second hacking cold in two weeks--did I complain about that already?--so I'm not going to work today, I don't think. John has just left for Lake Placid in his macho Nissan Pathfinder. He's happy. I'm feeling a little discouraged but also energized by this new adventure and grateful that, at least this early on in my north country career, my boss doesn't mind if I don't brave the roads on a day like today.

Our 80-year-old landowner neighbor, Mr. B. is out there plowing the mud logging road. He's a tough old bugger.

Last night we spent a quiet hour gazing at our decorated tree. It is beautiful, of course, the most beautiful tree either of us has ever had. My mom sent up the bulk of her ornaments, some from my childhood, and I had bought a bunch from the library here, and we had the few dozen we've collected. It's a lopsided, awkward tree but so beautiful.

Rhonda the feline plow truck LIVES! This morning John cleared our driveway with her. I did shovel work and dug a little racetrack for Papi, who after his initial horror of the whole experience decided snow wasn't so bad. He even plunged into a two-foot drift in order to get to John, who was inviting him into the truck. The cats, however, won't even come near a door. "Heck, no," they say. "See you next spring."

Snow is still coming down, as if it will never end. Confectioner's sugar is being shaken out of the sky. "Fresh powder," John says, "Whoever gets to be the first down Whiteface will be a lucky person." Yes, but they won't be able to see where they're skiing.

Snow, snow snow. When will I fall out of love with living here? I can't imagine not being excited about this.

Snow. Martha's sense of snow. Snow that bedazzles, glitters, winks. Sometimes it's hard to believe that it's snow because it is so perfect, each flake opalescent, diamondine. It's been snowing all day and will snow all night. Rhonda, the plow truck with nine lives, is getting a nice thick white blanket, which tomorrow morning John will sweep off so he can start her up and clear the driveway.

This afternoon I started Christmas decorating and put a single white candle light in each window, including the two triangular windows in the attic. Now that it's night, from outside the house looks prettier than a painting, and I must confess that I suddenly understand the appeal of Thomas Kincaid's artwork. Moonlight and snow combine to make the outdoors glow. The electric candles reflect off snow and snow-covered trees. The scene is gold, blue, and a million shades of grey blue gold.

Today I roamed Jay running errands and socializing. The postmaster shared his lunch with me--homemade baba ganoush, flat bread and spanakopita. Paul Johnson entertained me and a half dozen other customers with stories and gossip. I bought our Christmas tree from him and intended to get a loaf of homemade bread but forgot. The Aubuchon hardware man in Au Sable Forks helped me find a timer for the Christmas tree lights. When John got home from proctoring the SATs we took a drive back to the hardware store--I needed more candle lights--and I drove us home in the snow-pouring twilight. At John's suggestion I took a back road and nearly crashed us into a stone wall because I didn't see the turn where the Jay covered bridge is. Better the stone wall than the river, which is not yet frozen solid. Me, quiet panic voice while we slide quite out of my control in the whiteness: "John? John?" ...and John, "Get off the brake! Get off the brake!" The Nissan did stop, and we shook it off and kept on going.

Just now a brightly-lit industrial-sized snow plow vehicle drove by the house spewing a plume of snow higher than itself.

Today I practiced Christmas carols on the piano. John's family will be here in less than a week and today I came to the conclusion that my dream of playing carols while everyone stands around and sings is not going to happen, at least this year. No one could be expected to try to sing along while I crash around trying to find the notes and chords. I am disappointed but have been enjoying myself anyway and won't stop playing just because I'm bad at it.

Bedtime soon. Smidgen is wandering around making her strange howling sound, dragging her coyote foot between her front legs. Bean is a sphinx on the chair next to me. He has been following me around like he's tied to my shoelaces. He wants me to change the weather back to warm so he can hunt and not be cold. Nickie is probably asleep on a radiator somewhere. John is finishing up his bathroom renovation for the night--brushstrokes of pungent shellac. Papi is curled in a donut on a pillow on the couch. I am a happy person tonight.