I don’t know what happened to the winter storm, but it sky is an azure blue and the temperature is not particularly cold. Now, they said, the temperature was supposed to plummet and we were to have white out conditions. Well, that’s weather. ‘Course we’re not out of the woods yet.

JUST A LITTLE WHILE LATER . . .

The woods! The woods!! We have been sucked back in and the sky is a chalk gray – that fast. Temperature is supposed to be down to 3? tonight.

We have the TV tuned into “A Night to Remember” – a much bettter movie than “Titanic”. All that money for the set for Titanic and they made a cheap love story. Uh, that would be my opinion.

*******

Now we have bluish skies again, and frankly, the day seems like a no name day – not a weekday, not a weekend day, but sort of an out of time day – or from another dimension day.

Did you hear the shout? Did you? Right after 8 am this morning. People were monitoring the TV about East Noble and its 2-hour Delay.  The winter storm is a little slower than predicted, but at 6 am we got the delay notice and started waiting. I heard groans as 8 am grew near and nothing changed; I heard people get up and  abandon the TV scroll at the bottom . . .  and then, then . . . this grandma glanced up to see the last flash of “East Noble – CLOSED”. I called it out, but all were afraid to believe me, and to tell the truth since I didn’t have my glasses on, I wondered if perhaps I had seen it wrong. But really I knew I hadn’t; it’s just that people rushing in to view your magical TV of miracles and Cameron saying, “Grandma, if you’re wrong, I’ll have to box your ears” makes you a little nervous.

So we waited through the scrolling all the way round again and, finally, there it was: East Noble: CLOSED. I think what proved to be the deciding factor for the “delay czar and cohorts” was the appearance of rapidly moving clouds into the winter warning map.

The county east of us stayed at a delay; for them, it was close, but no cigar. I do wonder if there will a bit of a mess getting those students home this afternoon. Although, school’s always manage to do it.

The wind is picking up now.

Stay tuned . . .  maybe pictures at eleven.

Got food, got lamp oil, got full tank of gas . . .  and, yes, got milk.

Cameron found RFDTV on the cable guide – seems there was a show about cowboys and California or cows and California. He was in there watching it in the living room and after awhile he had somehow finessed me into tuning it in as well. The show about California was over and actually I watched two guys talk about bull riders they had known. For some unknown reason – perhaps the RFD in the call letters – I just left it on as I went back and forth to other rooms. Came in for some older cowboy with a really long mustache cooking tempura pork loins. And he cooked something on the “grizzly spit” and potatoes on the “grizzly rotisserie. I watched rodeo bareback riding, calf roping, teaching a horse to back up, instructing guys on how to sit on a jumping horse, and listened to a cowboy minister who talked and then sang with the Sons of the Pioneers.

Now they have gone to Georgia farming and I think I am out of here. Nothing against Georgia, but I’m just tired and not up to learning about compass and pacing in forestry.

I need to nibble . . .

Today the snow is coming down and the wind is taking it this way and that in broad sweeping strokes. I suppose I’ll take some pictures. Here are some from yesterday . . . It’s comfy in the PBC&R.

New wood delivery – the sign says, “Friends Gather Here” – but not really in this weather. We need it to say: “Wood Carriers Gather Here”.

Waiting in line at the middle school for Summer. Sydney is in the backseat, watching . . . watching . . . waiting . . . . Where is she? Where is she? Is she coming? Is something wrong? Why isn’t she here?

Oh, and here is Mother and Tiffany. Wow, Sydney and I are so thrilled to be posting a picture of a furry thing that is not a dog.

Today I am walking around with a trash bag affixed to my hand/body/duct-taped to my pants . . . whatever . . . and I am gathering and tossing all things that cannot convince me they need to stay in this house. They had better be fast and loud talkers because I think I will put on my ipod earphones while I sort the chaff from the wheat – and let me tell you, some of the wheat may not be safe.

This morning, just after five, Cameron shows up to wake me and say, “I need a USB thingie; I think I left it in this glass ashtray.” Well, that was maybe three months ago and the glass ashtray is a Depression glass candy dish that is now in two pieces because someone knocked it off and, finally, I know a couple of months ago, I said to Der Bingle, “There’s the USB  thingie you gave me in the glass dish when he needed to use it.” So it has not been in the dish for a long time.

I’m taking a breath now.

But at  five in the morning, in a last minute homework transporting mission, I look. And, I find two. The thing is this: When I was in high school and procrastinated, I always did my own scurrying around. Why do they think I should do their scurrying. Are they not capable of it.

OH.

YES, I REMEMBER.

Maybe I shouldn’t call them bozos. It encourages them.

Anyway, this agitation has led to my new mimalist outlook. But I think the regulars at the PBC&R are going to reach out. I hope they bring Diet Coke with a splash of Coke and some snacks to the intervention. And maybe a hassock for my feet.

Sydney and I took Summer to school and as I automatically pulled into the driveway and around the big spruce and crawled to a stop, I realized, “Oh, Sydney and fairgrounds.” It was cold in the car; we hadn’t had time to warm up, but there he was looking at me. So I put it in reverse, turned around and we drove back onto the street and headed for the FG.

It was not yet truly light as I wound my way through the trees on the narrow camping road, following the slightly filled-in tracks from our visit the day before. Not enough light to work a Sudoku as I let him out to run. I could see the snowflakes drifting through the dim light in front of me and the heater was warming me . . . and it occurred to me there is something pleasing about watching the purity of a quiet winter morn from a warm spot. Watching it alone; just yourself.

You are there, sort of inert. What you are is what you are. No other personalities serve as catalysts to bring out your not-so-good traits. No one is there to put on a front for, no one to hide tears from. Tears for those who have gone and who were hurt by you being you because you were so long to wise up. Tears for those with whom you have lost opportunities, have not tried hard enough. Actually, the tears are for you; you cry for yourself and the tears carry the stress hormones and ease things a little – maybe make the truth a little easier to look at in retrospect. Well, what it is is that you are feeling sorry for yourself. But there in the quiet of a morning when life is stripped to the bare bones, you really don’t think about why this or why not that. It is just a brief time when you are honest with yourself and it hurts. And you are human.

Years ago, well, nine to be exact, you spent hours driving Alison to work in Fort Wayne and back home, then back to get her and bring her back 12 hours later. Death had come to someone you had loved forever and in the car, there was the sound of John Denver and the muppets and the song “When the river meets the sea.” You would hit replay and after awhile, you could cry quietly; often you would get home before your tears had run their course and you thought: “The road isn’t long enough.”

Well, never mind that now. Light has become stronger and  you see movement: squirrels running freely from tree to tree. They are not worried.  A thought clicks, “Where IS that dog?” For a moment, you wonder if because he is old, he has grown tired for the last time and is lying somewhere. You brace yourself . . . and then, in your line of sight between the hood of the car and the ground beyond, there are those floppy ears. With the door open, he jumps in and his fur brushes softly across your face. And ir feels a little as if the final notes of a bagpipe playing Amazing Grace are lingering in the distance.

Today I went up to the walk-in closet in the sitting room and took an empty trash bag with me; I filled it with things to throw away. I thought it would be easy; it was really not. First of all, I simply will not throw away anything with the Banana Rebulic Safari & Travel Company label in it. God, I loved that store. You walked in there and you were in the tropics – army jeep, jungle bird noises, khaki, khaki and khaki. Then the Gap bought it. A sad day.

Okay, Lands End is so soft and comfy, but I actually did get rid of a fleece hoodie that was snot green. I think it was on sale for a couple of dollars. It was warm but I started to hate it . . . along with the other one I had purchased at the same time for the same incredibly low price. Who knew snot green was just too hard to live with even in a darkened room.

Talbots – never, even if you have to relegate them to the paint clothes or toilet clean up clothes. Jones of New York – no. LLBean – no. Columbia – Heavens, no. And, of course, there is no way I can part with even the cheapest scrap of something that has Pacific Beach on it, with San Diego being a close second. The Crystal Pier, Kono’s, Skechers Outlet, my coffee shop balcony looking out over the boardwalk to the ocean, my walk down to the beach . . . and back. And, my special touchstone, Lifeguard tower 22. Well, the tower was down a little ways; number 22 was sort of like a big football helmet shaped shelter on a pile of sand.

Ah, better get a grip. Have to get Summer and bring her home. shudder

It is gloomy here – no sunlight at all, just an overcast sky without any variations in the gray. So, is my mother sleeping in or is she up and around, all coffee-fied with wood in the stove and the crossword in her hands? I don’t know. Should I call now or later. This would be what Quentin would refer to as the morning death call. Yes, I know, horrible, isn’t it.  And, of course, there is the night death call. He was still a teenager when he first used the phrase. Now, if the topic comes up, it is “the . . . call” – but we know it’s the death call. I guess when she was in her early 70’s and really robust, it was kind of a Saturday Night Live thing. Now, she’s in her 80’s, tires easier, is afraid of strokes and Alzheimers and, well, it’s not obviously as much of a joke.  Even I, when she doesn’t answer for a few times in a row, start gathering my car keys and wondering about calling someone working nearby. Then she answers and says, “I was out chopping wood or rebuilding the garage door . . . something like that.

Okay, I’m calling.

Picked up on about the fifth ring – said she was signing her name on a check and finished that. Okay. This did not bode well; I figured she was going to say she was paying her health insurance and that would have triggered a long oft-heard speech on how she doesn’t take medicine, go to doctors or intend to go to a hospital. Pays in all this money and illegals are getting free care at the ER – except she’s the one paying for part of their care. Yes, she has a point . . . like a bulldog with an indestructible bone.

My mother has “moods” – often.  I suppose to her I have “whatevers”.

Well . . . whatever.