Being ankle-deep in it myself, I’m not the slightest bit interested in reading more about it. However, I am still plugging away at the picture framing in the barn, and my numbed-by-the-cold brain is beginning to question whether I have always been a girl or if indeed, I have frozen my Christmas balls off.
There is no Christmas tree at my house, no lovely waft of balsam or fir. If time permits, I may string up the cards I haven’t written out much less sent as yet. I’m beginning to feel the pinch of age when my feet get cramped by the cold stone floor of the shop and when I need to put on my glasses to find the house twenty feet away through the swirling snow. I cannot take the time to fire up the coal stove; a coal stove simply is not made to “fire up” but instead takes hours of patient tending and loving care to reach the point where it wll warm even just me, across the room. I won’t work in here all day, of course, because then I will have become snowed in, literally. But I will trudge through the drifts to find my way to my front door tonight and warm up and relax. Enough at least, to get online and do some Christmas shopping, and maybe write out those cards.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
You only live in the next town over, Susan. If you need help, don’t hesitate to call.
You’re a sweetie, Adam, and I appreciate it. This is just a process I’ve gone through every winter now for many years, and should have learned to plan for. But what would life be without its unplanned-for moments? I hate predicability, and guess this is my rebellion. I’m more productive under self-imposed stress.
But thanks.