Yesterday I woke with an unsettled intestinal system and then got hot and cold at the same time; the weather was icy and my replacement Kindle could not be delivered. Now, after an early morning trip to the bathroom, I stopped by the kitchen for a bit of ice for a drink . . AND THE ICEMAKER IS NOT WORKING.

I looked it all over and came to the conclusion that it IS NOT WORKING. So I am in the first step of the situation: I closed the door, leaned on it and implored, “WORK, WORK, WORK, YOU ICEMAKER.” I do not have much hope in this step.

So, what am I writing about? Well, something that I just realized I was reading about seven years ago: a little boy named Thomas Bickle who died of a brain tumor. I followed his story through his mother’s posting on her blog. Just type “Bickle” into the search category, and the posts will come up, if you are interested. Or just take a look at one – this one. Or type in Dwarves of Grief; it will melt your heart.

I have had a light – and amber one – in my west-facing porch window for a long time now; I’ve gone through several bulbs; It’s Thomas Bickle’s light. It sits unobtrusively on the wide window sill and shines out all the time. It is still there because some things just have to be remembered and acknowledged – an enduring remembrance that transcends the drama of an event that moves forever further into the past.

Tonight I noticed the special warmth of its glow and I almost heard myself whisper, “Hello, there, Thomas’ light. Shine on.”

I decided to write about these moments because every now and then, I need to stop with boring accounts and puns and made-up silly ideas and expressions of disgust at some politicians and just cite a worthy reason for this blog to be here.

It started snowing about nine last night and driving home included trying to figure out what was snow on the road and what was dried salt. By the time I made it to my street, there was no doubt. We are at the very northern edge of this latest storm. Der Bingle is in the middle. In fact, he just cleaned off his car and shoveled behind it a short while ago. The temperature here and there is not that cold, which is not all that good. It’s a wet snow and tonight the temperature is going to plunge, making an icy mess in the morning.

We’ve had some incredible March snows, including the St. Patrick’s Day blizzard back in the 70″s. A week later, my parents picked me up at the airport and the snow along the roadway towered over the car. In 2012, though, I attended a burial and the temperature was 85.

I’m in a time warp in other ways – I’ve been playing Glenn Miller tunes while Mrs. Feller dozes and feel myself being drawn into the 40’s via movie memories. I am starting to expect cars to be big and rounded and the radio to announce the latest war news. And hats – men don’t have their hats on . I wonder if I’ll get trapped back there; if that appears to be the case, call Pennsylvania 6-5000.