Hello dear readers,

How are you?  Wrapped up, warm and wonderful, I hope.  I am cold, despite a multitude of layers and a hat on my head.  And busy, writing, revising my novel, spending days in a flurry of words and fleeting thoughts.  It’s been rather lovely and satisfying, though all consuming, too.

The workers are done, the last out on Friday, and the quiet’s been blissful.  No more banging or wondering when someone will arrive.  No new dust being scattered by labor either, though plenty of the old dust is still getting kicked around.  I’m thinking we’ll have one of those furnace cleaners come after the new year, and then we will paint the basement, too, so very, very many gallons.

I’ve still not hung the pictures in the bathroom, nor decorated our house for the holidays, save two candles and a festive plaid cloth on the dining room table.  To be honest, I don’t really miss it.  I’m just so happy for quiet and grateful to get things done, that it doesn’t seem to matter.

In the evenings, after my mind is spent, and I’ve made some sort of soup for dinner, last night was possibly the best fish chowder, and the night before minestrone, I settle in on the sofa, knit, and watch movies.  It’s about all my little brain wants or can handle.  The hubster plays the piano (he’s learning music from Amelie), types away on his very old Commodore-64 in his new man-cave, or sits with me, a cat on his lap and mine.

It’s a wonderful life, sometimes busy and hectic, but mostly exactly what we want, and always good, lovely, and fine.