Tuesday, February 15
Romping in the snow
I'm sitting up here on the second floor looking out over the backyard which is now about four inches deep with pure new white wet snow and Westley is running in those big galumping running steps he takes when he's frolicking in the snow. It snowed nearly all day to day, big wet flakes twisting and blowing around the gray sky, after yesterday being about 65 sunny blue sky degrees. If you don't like the weather, wait 10 minutes. That's what they say around here. That's what I say, at least.
Anyway, I came out of work and the big torn apart cotton clouds were ripping to shreds, the snow was drying up and patches of winter blue sky were appearing above the clouds. It's the perfect snow: the roads are wet but not icy or snowy; our driveway is clear and yet the dogs have about four or five inches of power to romp around in. Sweetness!
Had an idea for a bunch of short stories -- a short story collection, if you will, when I spied the current Premier magazine on our coffee table: Magazine Articles About Ordinary People Who Don't Normally Have Feature Articles Written About Them. Maybe I'll write one or two samples and post them here in the near future.
OK: I have to go pick up Reade from violin lessons, hang out while Connor's drum teacher appears, set up the video tape (we're 20th century pre-Tivo Luddites here) to record the second night of the Westminster Dog Show, go play racquetball and still find time to edit five or ten pages of my novel later tonight. So I best be off.
Oh, there goes Westley again, back legs leap frogging through the powder, shoulders twisting, mouth down biting snow, ears flopping, his face an icy blur of laughing whiskers. Now he's banging on the back door. Good night!
Anyway, I came out of work and the big torn apart cotton clouds were ripping to shreds, the snow was drying up and patches of winter blue sky were appearing above the clouds. It's the perfect snow: the roads are wet but not icy or snowy; our driveway is clear and yet the dogs have about four or five inches of power to romp around in. Sweetness!
Had an idea for a bunch of short stories -- a short story collection, if you will, when I spied the current Premier magazine on our coffee table: Magazine Articles About Ordinary People Who Don't Normally Have Feature Articles Written About Them. Maybe I'll write one or two samples and post them here in the near future.
OK: I have to go pick up Reade from violin lessons, hang out while Connor's drum teacher appears, set up the video tape (we're 20th century pre-Tivo Luddites here) to record the second night of the Westminster Dog Show, go play racquetball and still find time to edit five or ten pages of my novel later tonight. So I best be off.
Oh, there goes Westley again, back legs leap frogging through the powder, shoulders twisting, mouth down biting snow, ears flopping, his face an icy blur of laughing whiskers. Now he's banging on the back door. Good night!
