This is the tree in my sitting room; it is artificial, so sometimes I forget to take it down. It is my favorite tree because it has the traditional lights and my favorite ornaments . . . because most of them have a special place in my heart. Usually I have to tie it to the window latches so it won’t fall over; this year I used red ribbon because I forget to bring up twine and the ribbon was there.

The one below is the little blue-sequined angel; I’m fairly certain she came from a rummage sale. She reminds me of my good friend Andrea (aka Feisty) although Andy has long pig tails and carries a bunch of seashells with her. It is comforting for me to know part of the Feisty spirit is on the tree, doing her little dance and being festive.

Last night during the game when the Green Bay Packers were playing “those other people”, I noticed that Tom Coughlin, coach of “those other people”, had a really red, chapped-looking face. Actually, one of the announcers even commented on it during the first quarter.

This morning I got up and Googled Tom Coughlin and frostbite face and saw that two other bloggers were thinking the same thing.

Blades of Blue and Henry’s Travels. Henry, by the way, must be a cat because the address of the blog contains the phrase “four dainty paws” and there is a picture of a cat in the profile box . . . and he doesn’t tolerate tomfoolery. In fact, he has contempt for it.

On my butt – that’s where I am. Sitting here typing because otherwise I would just be sitting here. Not that there is so much wrong with that, but I am unhappy with it tonight. However, I am not getting up, which should tell me something about my character.

Watching Green Bay and the Giants; it’s halftime and the four sports guys with different strategies on keeping their heads warm. One guy has no hat and closely cropped hair – not smart; Bradshaw has a stocking cap on which looks a lot better than the beret he was wearing pre-game; Howie has the bomber hat on he wore some years ago at another super cold game and Jimmy Johnson has a band that goes around his forehead and neck, covering his ears. Well, you know how he likes to have his hair just so.

There is a new show coming on – they’re advertising it now, To Tell the Truth. A new show to humiliate people. It follows American Idol. I see a trend of yuckiness here.

Halftime is over; Giants at their own 31.

I wonder if the team I root for is doomed to lose. Poor Packers, then.

Never mind about my chilled feet.

I don’t remember them teaching me much about writing in school, that is expressing myself. I remember topic sentences and the talk about punctuation and run-on on sentences and the passive voice vs. the active voice. (They didn’t like the passive, too mousy; better you showed the vigor of the active voice.)

I remember groaning when teachers would announce, “Tomorrow’s assignment, class, is to write 300 words.” Sometimes, they would add that you could you could write whatever you wanted. Ha! I didn’t think it in so many words, but I knew they didn’t mean that; you were to write something with each law of grammar observed, even if it made it less attractive to read . . . topic sentence, dontcha know?

The irony of this is that we were often reading the works of authors who couched their message in symbolism and analogies . . . and we aren’t even getting into guys like Faulkner who told the story from different viewpoints and different times and didn’t even mention it was doing it.

I’d sit there and stare at the study questions asking me to discuss Faulkner’s theme, his symbols and explain what he was really telling people. Do you know what I would think? I’d want to spit out, “Look, it it was so important to get this message out, Bill, why didn’t you just spell it out for us.

Okay, so maybe that wouldn’t make a puzzle of the book, lead the reader to the slow dawning of what was happening. Maybe the dialect of the telling would lose its flavor. Okay, fine, leave it as you wrote it, but include a little nutshell at the back of the book to explain things for those of us who had all your subtle intellectual literary maneuvers go right over our heads.

Decades later, I would share this thought with an editor who majored in literature and she would say that good writers put stuff out there for interpretation. To me, that would imply good writers are the ones who write assembly instructions – you know, the writers for whom English is a second language. In this case, I find the pictures to be a better guide then the words.

Anyway, so I was supposed to decipher what the great minds of literature decided to hint at, but when I wrote myself, I was to make certain I clearly stated what I meant. Bummer.

I leave you with this Winston Churchill quote: ”If you have an important point to make, don’t try to be subtle or clever. Use a pile driver. Hit the point once. Then come back and hit it again. Then hit it a third time-a tremendous whack.”

That doesn’t include begging for human food – he will do that anywhere, pretty much. Hey, come to think of it his “dog food” is mostly human food: browned ground chuck, browned buffalo burger, chicken and rice. Oh, and the meat are throughly drained and patted after being browned. There is a small bit of Purina One for sensitive digestive systems added in for vitamins; he actually chows down food sold in the store for table food.

He won’t eat it in the kitchen. I stood there today washing glasses and cookie sheets and whatnot and his dish was close by and no one else was in the house, but he would not eat – even though I had warmed his food in the microwave. So, when I was done, I warmed it again and carried it out to the porch where he has become accustomed to eating while I sit on the sofa, laptop on lap. He ate it. Well everyone needs a place where they feel comfortable, where they have a regular spot and everyone knows his name.

Hey, Norm . . . wait, I mean Sydney.

My grandmother, Jessie Shimp, nee Wisler, used to say this when something out of the ordinary happened, usually something that would cause a complication or outright trouble. She was born in 1881 and I don’t think she ever said, “Well, this is a Hell of a note.” I think I first said the great note phrase when I pretty little; I remember my mother remarking, “She heard that from Mom.”

A lot of things are “a great note” around here these days, from Hillary Clinton to routine family things.

At least the dog is a nice guy.

Well, the lights outside are turned off, have been for a while now. I miss them. I don’t know this little boy, but I have read his story and his mother’s words and I keep thinking of him. Last year, this time, I didn’t know Thomas existed; I don’t know how I came to his site. But come I did and, now, extraordinarily, I feel I must keep something lit.

I have Thomas’ lamp now: a brass stand and an amber light in the old north porch window. And it shines.

The sign at the bank at the turn to the hospital on Sawyer said it was 14? this morning  sometime between 6:15 and 6:30. It was cold enough that frost formed inside the little green car and on the rearview mirror. (When I was a little girl, my ears heard “review” mirror, as in review where you have been. Made sense then. Heck, it makes sense now . . . unless you are backing up – so never mind.) Back home, I decided it as time to have a fire because it was . . . yes, cold. Wood outside on a pile is very cold, too, especially if you are not wearing gloves.

Now, at 8:21 am, I am sitting in front of said fire, but with shoes on. I think shoes, especially heavy ones that have been out in the cold, can get in the way of fully enjoying a fire. Actually, it’s a bit like having cement “L’s” on your feet.
CLUNK  …….     CLUNK. That would be the sound of my shoes dropping to the floor if it were not carpeted. As it is, the sound is more of a THUNK. Freed from being encased in what felt like solid blocks of concrete, my toes stretch out toward the heat. Ahhhhh. Yes.

Oh, we need more wood . . . Should have thought of that before “thunking”. *

* to thunk: to let one’s shoes fall from feet to a carpeted floor; past tense of to think in some circles.

WAIT!! The word sun* was in the title of this post, so, yes, sun is predicted for a good part of the day.

* sun: object in sky rarely seen this winter in Northern Indiana.

Yes, I am. I am sitting here looking at the fire I built. Can’t you just feel the warmth! Oh, five inch penalty for taunting – I have to move back five inches. Damn refs.

Well, I suppose that’s all right since they say a neatly kept house is the sign of convention-bound, dull person. Or is it a lazy one. Hmmm . . .

When I’m out on the porch and look down at the floor in front of where I am sitting, I see this needlepoint footstool. Gotta love the cow. I picked this up at a Goodwill store; it was a real nice fine – made my day.

In fact, I hate to put my feet on it , but in the end, I do; the cow doesn’t mind and it makes balancing my laptop much easier.

Oh, speaking of laptops, Apple just introduced the Airbook . . . for about $1,800. ACK!!!Oh, speaking of laptops, Apple just introduced the Airbook . . . for about $1,800. ACK!!!