Memoirous

17℉ A number is just a number until attached to a thing. For the right-brained One, two, three, For some, more or less, How does it feel? Take calories for example: One may consume 2000 And wreak havoc, while Those filling up on veggies Salad, whole grains equal That number and more! One person gains, another Loses, looses. Not all temperatures are the same Is 17℉ cold or frigid? My weather app ascribes both It depends. Is it sunny or cloudy, Night or day, full Or waning moon? Monday, I skied in 17℉ And felt warm, almost hot! Yesterday, I skied in 17℉ In blustery snowy conditions And never fully warmed up. I awoke today to 2℉ And didn’t know how To start the day Where is the gauge? x country skiing Meridian Twnshp Historic Village

The big house next to my Tiny House is a throbbing hub of energy. I can hear my grandsons’ feet pounding the kitchen floor as they run circles around the table. The little one shouts in glee. The attic was long ago converted into living space. Not sure how well insulated the house is. After a snowfall the roofs are iced in white, but after a day or two there are melt spots (if no further snow covers), peeking out like shorn fur on an animal’s hide. The process of melt—either generated by the house, the inhabitants, or thermal from the rare appearances of the sun, a mid-day warmup—creates spectacular icicles. Like fringe on a surrey. Like monster fangs. Like daggers hanging from a knight’s belt. Like cavern stalactites, solid, hanging from cathedral ceilings. They multiply, grow longer by the day. I gauge how cold it is by the number of icicles lining the eaves. Visitors from the far north of Narnia.

A few days off in the middle of the week, in mid-Winter I work at a very popular shoe store, performance wear, aka running/walking/trail shoes. But, even we have slow periods. So more time off. I wake up under the eaves of my Tiny House—sometimes my nose is cold and sometimes my sleeping body heat has warmed the upstairs. It is incredibly cozy lying under blankets on a soft pillow in the half light of a winter morning. This a.m. it was a little hard to get out of bed, I wanted to stay forever in that netherworld of dream, but . . . Day called. Most mornings, nature calls. I quickly climb down from my loft bed on a sturdy oak ladder specially built for me and the Tiny House. Next is a series of actions not in any particular order: Visit the composting toilet, screened off in a corner Change out of fleece sleep slippers into lamb’s wool Uggs Don a sweater or insulated shacket from Patagonia Switch on kettle, prep tea Pills—thyroid and Vitamin D Shovel That’s right. I go outside in ...

New Work Out: Centerpoint Actually this piece has BEEN out. I just didn’t know it. Someone at work was asking about my new book, Woman of a Certain Age, a story collection, and I said let me show you my website. I googled my name and up popped the piece, published online in Third Wednesday. Okay, that’s a surprise. I’d submitted it in November and it was taken soon after. I just had gotten so busy with holiday rush that I hadn’t checked my Submittable dashboard to see it had been accepted. Sheesh. Anyway, I’m linking to it now and will soon get it up under Other Writing. A pleasant surprise and acknowledgement that 2025 had truly been a fruitful year. Now as I take time to think ahead to 2026: I have a lot of work to do to raise to the level of 12 ACCEPTANCES IN ONE YEAR!! I have to start cracking on writing new stuff and submitting. Maybe time for another collection . . . hmm. Keep tuned—book launch for Woman of a Certain Age to be announced.