Suzy Says

Sadly, Santa did not see fit to bring me a Barbie (there’s always next year!), but he did bring me a shiny new microwave. OK, I ordered it and it arrived right after Christmas, but I can think of myself as Santa’s personal shopper if I want to. A girl can dream (or totally lose her grasp on reality; you decide).

When I went shopping for a microwave, I was surprised by how expensive they are. So this was the both the cutest and cheapest I could find, because if I have to look at something every day, it had better be cute (even men would agree with me on this point). You can see that it is indeed quite cute, and goes very nicely with the coffeemaker (pictured) and the vintage radio (not). I’ve had it for over a week now and have yet to kill it, which is quite encouraging. Maybe new appliances have a longer life expectancy than the old ones did. Even with the Suzy Factor.

This post brought to you by our friends the parentheses (and a little caffeine).

I finally put the tree away under the house this morning, after, appropriately enough, laying the wreath on top of the box. Henry was the only mourner as I interred the white box under the house. Rest in pieces, shiny tree. Maybe I’ll see you in the hereafter.

As I write, I’m eating a green apple Jolly Rancher from my Christmas stocking. Given that Twelfth Night is upon us, I’d better stop acting as if it’s still the holidays and perfectly acceptable to eat candy all day, especially in the morning. I should probably take off the remnants of sparkly polish Jessica applied to my nails on Christmas Day, too. But if I do, the fun is officially over.

Maybe I’ll wait until all my candy is gone.

Given the New Austerity (and, frankly, tired of taking it), I’ve started looking for a part-time job. It’s harder than you’d think to find a job that really is part-time. I have learned that what most employers really want is essentially full time workers, but with enough hours that they don’t have to supply benefits. So “part-time” jobs are 30-38 hours a week, which is impossible for me, since I already have a job.

And don’t get me started on how employers also want applicants to have a string of degrees and qualifications and then work for $12-15 an hour with no benefits.

Another thing I learned about from perusing the want ads is a job I didn’t know existed before: family assistant. Apparently, this is someone in addition to one’s nanny to do the boring housework, pick up the kids, ferry them to soccer practice and ballet lessons, help them with homework, etc. I thought that was a parent’s job, but what do I know, being child-free and all. They probably get the family assistant to vet schools, plan the graduation party, and the weddings for the kids, too.

Since I’m not cut out to be a paid parent (or an unpaid one), here are some possible part-time jobs for Suzy:

• Cosmetic namer: I love it when make-up has names instead of numbers. It’s so much more fun to know your lipstick is called Cherries in the Snow than Number 342. I’m sure I could come up with some fabulous names for girls like I.
• Showgirl: Time might be against me on this one, but I’d love to wear one of those wonderful headdresses and be the toast of Las Vegas. And it wouldn’t interfere with my day job.
• Starlet: A vanishing career, but perfect for someone who’s frivolous and not particularly talented. I could write my own tabloid stories about myself. Two part-time jobs, no diapers! Sign me up!
• Ball Girl: How fun would this job be? And I’d have the winters off to recover from my arduous tasks on the beach in say, Bora Bora. I’ve heard good things.
• Beauty Queen: Time is probably against me on this one, too, but I’ve been studying the red carpet for years and nobody knows gowns like I do. Also having a best friend who was an international model in our mutual youth taught me a few things about make-up, named or numbered. And no-one would enjoy wearing a tiara more than I would, except possibly a friend’s relative, who wears her small town beauty queen tiara to Thanksgiving dinner.
• Personal shopper: Really, kids, can you think of a better use for my champagne tastes and love of shopping? Not to mention my flawless good taste and ability to spend other people’s money. This one would be a win-win.

All ideas, comments, and suggestions welcome!

No matter what I do (or don’t do), my sink is always full of dishes. Even if I’ve just been eating take-out, or zapping up a Lean Cuisine, there seems to be an endless supply of cutlery, china, and even pots and pans, the bane of dish washers everywhere.

The only dish washer I have is me, which may well be why there are so many to be washed. It must be nice to have a dishwasher to hide the evidence in, though it always seems to me that by the time you’ve scraped and rinsed the dish, you might as well just finish washing it.

I have a new theory: when I turn off the kitchen light, the dishes get together and start procreating. “Come here often?” “You’re so…shiny!” As soon as I turn the light on, they act like nothing’s happening, just like you did when your parents suddenly came home and found you and your boyfriend on the couch.

I drank not wisely, but too well, last night, and on entering the kitchen in search of coffee, wondering why the sun had to be so sunny and how it got to be quite so late, noticed that the dish population had seemingly exploded overnight. Clearly they had been enjoying my absence both wisely and well.

The thought of clearing up the overpopulated sink enough to start making more dishes was even less appealing than usual, so I decided to go and get some pizza, hoping that the Dish Fairy would magically appear and make the dishes disappear while I was out. She must be a little on the shy side, or wants to enjoy my surprise and delight, so she won’t show up while I’m actually in the house. Just to give her some extra time for the extra dishes, I got lost a couple of times finding the pizza place in Berkeley (there is no decent pizza in my neighborhood. Same goes for Chinese food).

When I got home with my hard-won carbs, I peeked in the kitchen. The Dish Fairy had not yet appeared. Maybe it’s because I haven’t been good, or because even the Fairy herself is daunted by the size of her task and decided to go somewhere easier, like the kitchen at Boulevard.

Maybe I’ll think about it tomorrow.

I already took the Christmas tree down, and I already miss it.

I used to wonder what was the matter with those people whose trees were at the curb the day after Christmas. Now I know: they have kittens.

Mine started their siege as soon as the battle of setting up the tree was finally over. They merrily chased the string of lights as I wove it through the branches. They relentlessly hunted the gorgeous glass peacocks (with real feather tails!) without a license. What was I thinking? If the cats live to be 22, as a friend’s cat did, they’d still be after those birds. I still regret their gorgeousness hidden away in a box, possibly forever, when they should be delighting Me and passers-by on an annual basis.

~sigh~

The entire time the tree was up, minus nap time, was occupied with pouncing on the tree, chewing on the tree, trying (and succeeding) in pulling the tree over, jumping on it, and driving Suzy to despair. Armed with a plant mister, I squirted them with water during the tree attacks, which diverted them temporarily, but only temporarily. Yelling at the cats and squirting them made me so sad that I just packed it all up, even though everyone knows that packing up the tree before Twelfth Night is bad luck. And I did want one more night with the tree sparkling and the candles in the fireplace flickering, but being a grown-up is one big disappointment, and you’d think I’d be used to it by now.

Henry fled as I dragged up the heavy trap door in the floor of the porch where he was comfortably ensconced on the couch. I have noticed that cats, quite reasonably, frown on any kind of housework-related disruption to their otherwise civilized lives. I got the box out, and dismantled the tree far more quickly than I had assembled it, though the kittens’ participation was equally enthusiastic on both occasions. June even jumped into the box of tree parts for one last desperate chew.

By the time I was finished, I couldn’t face the perilous journey under the house in semi-darkness, so I left the box on the Henry-vacated porch, where it remains to this day. After I put the box outside, I had to vacuum up tree residue, which made the kittens flee in terror of housework. They’ll have to think of other ways to drive me crazy, and I have total confidence in their abilities. Henry has returned to his comfortable porch and seems to have forgiven me, since he let me pet him two days in a row when I fed him (my only petting opportunity).

I’m still clinging to my wreath for now.

Belated happy new year, everyone! It’s no less sincere for being fashionably late. Many of you probably think the lateness is due to the traditional New Year’s hangover, but it’s actually just sloth. And no, I haven’t resolved to be less lazy this year, since there’s no chance I could actually keep that one.

In fact, my glamorous niece informs me that having resolutions could be hazardous to one’s health. What a fabulous reason not to have any! I’m going to be healthier by not having any resolutions!

It was a quiet New Year’s Eve. I sipped Piper Sonoma by the light of the sparkly white tree and glow of the white candles in the fireplace. I watched the 100th ball drop in New York (how could I resist the world’s biggest piece of Waterford crystal?), but dropped the ball on west coast midnight. I realized I had missed the witching hour when I heard people out in the street tooting little horns and calling out new year’s greetings with the muffled sound of fog-bound fireworks in the background.

The new year certainly started off with a bang at my local BART station. I’m starting to think about moving, especially after being in downtown Oakland on New Year’s Day (where I actually got some good Chinese food! Yay!) and enjoying the beautiful old buildings and the bustling atmosphere. I’m a city girl at heart, and though I can’t afford San Francisco, I may be able to find a place in downtown Oakland where I’ll be happier.

As I strolled through Chinatown and admired the Victorians by the lake, it occurred to me that I’ve lived here a year and still know next to nothing about this city. So I’ve decided to live dangerously in 2009 and resolve to get to know Oakland better.

My other resolution is to write more. I’d like to ask for your help with this one. I seem to be lacking inspiration at times after nearly eight years of blogging, so let me know if you have some ideas. Is there anything you’d like me to write about? Questions? Suggestions? Leave them in the comments, or email me at speakall at earthlink dot net. Thanks for reading all these years, and may this new one be a fabulous one for us all!

In which our heroine attempts to adjust to life in exile.

January: Cool Cornell. Sharks and Energy Domes. Film Noir Fabulosity.

February: Water bill weirdness.

March: Long-awaited license plates.

April: Bad day. Great week. Blog birthday (7!). Breaking and entering. The beginning of the Florida Fiasco.

May: Middle and end of the Florida fiasco.

June: Hello, Henry. Adieu, Margaret. Wildfires.

July: Kittens’ first birthday. Stevie Wonder. Steely Dan. Ant invasion. The mystery fire.

August: Birth of the Cool. Trip to the country.

September: Mr. Wilson. County Fair. Car Trouble.

October: Pretty Pasadena. Political Pumpkin.

November: No Neil Young. Elating Election.

December: Christmas tree carnage. Hail storm. Happy holidays!

And as the old year passes, it takes some beauty and style with it: Paul Newman, Bettie Page, Cyd Charisse, Charlton Heston, Eartha Kitt. Evelyn Keyes, whose performance I enjoyed so much during the Noir Festival (and in that little flick, Gone with the Wind). Dorian Leigh, sister of the glamorous Suzy Parker – the original supermodels back in the 1940s. The tragically young and tremendously talented Heath Ledger. Yves St-Laurent, who left the world a chicer place (and an exhibit of whose clothes I’m hoping to see soon at the De Young Museum). Isaac Hayes, Odetta, Levi Stubbs of the Four Tops, and Miriam Makeba. Bill Melendez, who animated all those classic Charlie Brown cartoons we love so much, especially at the holidays. George Carlin and Bernie Mac. They will all be missed. And Mr. Blackwell is now up there to critique them (and us!) all!

My brother came over to my sister’s house before I left and took the helm at the stove, making pancakes with the huckleberries that didn’t fit into the Christmas pie. Just add pure maple syrup and leftover apple wood smoked ham, and you have the real breakfast of champions!

While we ate, he told us that he had just returned from a call to a chimney fire. The directions weren’t very useful, so dispatch called the guy to ask for clarification – do you live on Road A or Road B? – and the guy couldn’t, or wouldn’t, answer. When the firemen finally found him and the remains of the fire (apparently, about 90% of chimney fires are contained by the time firemen get there, but they still have to go), he actually yelled at them for taking so long. Can you believe it? I think I know someone who got some coal in his stocking this year.

The sun was sunny, and the trip home uneventful, other than a disagreement between my car’s side mirror and a tree (which the tree won, necessitating an immediate trip to Kragen to avoid a ticket for driving while mirrorless) and a mysterious slowdown on the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, which allowed me to admire the San Francisco skyline for quite a long time. When the cars finally speeded up again, it was for no particular reason: no visible construction, accidents, or anything like that. Still, it was much better than the trip out. Note to Self: do not attempt to go anywhere on Christmas Eve unless you’re Santa.

When I got home, the kittens came running to the door. I was as happy to see them as they were to see me. It’s embarrassing how much I miss them when I’m away, no matter how much fun I’m having. The tree, on the other hand, looked quite dejected, leaning against the window as if sobbing quietly, with one of its branches amputated and halfway across the room.

Henry also seemed to be glad I was home, even though he had lots of food and water left. He even let me pet him before settling back onto the couch.

It’s good to be home, and to have happy new Christmas memories.

There was a power outage during the transition from Christmas Eve to Christmas Day. I’m secretly convinced it was Santa, protesting the total lack of cookies and milk and carrots for the reindeer. He did drop off Jessica’s gift on the front porch, though. I guess by the time he gets to Albion, he’s too tired to mess around with chimneys and things like that.

I feared the worst, since I know Albion is low priority for power restoration (which is why my brother has a generator), but it came back on in less than two hours and – thankfully – in time for coffee. After coffee, my sister and I took Schatzi for a muddy walk during a sunny break in the rainy day. Just minutes after we returned, it started raining and hailing and looking a lot like Christmas.

Jessica and her mother arrived sometime after noon in a flurry of hugs and kisses. It’s so great having a rental kid for Christmas: getting to sleep in and getting the wide-eyed wonder. Naturally, Jessica was the exception to the stockings only rule, and it was fun watching her open her gifts, which included no fewer than ten books. She is already reading the “Little House” books, and has written a letter herself to Neil Gaiman – and received a response, handwritten in fountain pen. Look out, world!

After the presents, we all pitched in to make dinner. The boys cut apple wood, put it in the barbecue, and set the ham to smoke with a maple-bourbon glaze for a couple of hours, while my sister made pie from the huckleberries she picked this summer and I made my world-famous cheese biscuits. Oven-roasted vegetables and mashed potatoes rounded out the meal (and us)!

After dinner, my brother read some of Jessica’s new books aloud, and I have to say, he really inherited Dad’s gift for reading stories to an audience. We were all mesmerized as he did all the voices. I think we may have a new Christmas tradition on our hands.

My sister’s Christmas tree

Seems the weather was terrible nearly everywhere in the country on Christmas Eve, and here was no exception. It was rainy and cold as I set off for my brother’s and sister’s. The traffic rivaled the weather for unrivaled awfulness. It took more than half an hour just to get to Berkeley, which should have been a ten-minute drive. If the cars weren’t sitting nearly still and gossiping about each other’s paint choices, they were merrily speeding by me, sending jets of temporarily blinding water over the windshield.

It took five and a half hours to go 150 miles. When I passed those normally irritating signs that tell you how much faster you’re going than the speed limit, they just reached out and patted my head as I went slowly by. Good girl!

I have never been so glad to see my sister’s little house in the pygmy woods.

My car crabbiness rapidly evaporated under the spell of the twinkling tree* and an open bottle of wine. By the time my sister got home from work, I was positively cheerful.

We had drawn names at Thanksgiving for stockings, and I had gotten my sister. You can imagine how much fun I had filling it. Because the tree is outside, we leaned all the stockings against the antique (yet working!) spinning wheel to await the big day.

While we arranged the stockings, my brother-in-law kept vanishing and reappearing. My sister finally asked him what he was up to, and he said something about a project he and my brother were working on. I smiled to myself, knowing full well what the “project” was.

Brother-in-Law had asked me to buy a replacement bathrobe for him to give my sister. Not because of the usual male inability to shop and shop on time, but because there’s nowhere to shop there and if he bought it online, my sister would see the package when she collected the mail. So I headed into the city on Tuesday with my mission firmly in mind.

All I can say is, if people are cutting back these days, they’re not cutting back on trips to San Francisco, or cable car rides when they get here ($5 one way). The line for the cable cars stretched around the block, tourists presumably blissfully unaware of all the cable car accidents this year.

So I fought my way through the maddening crowds and into the shop, where I discovered that the robes only came in white (impractical when your house is surrounded by dirt and doesn’t know enough to stay outside where it belongs), pale pink (ditto; also, she hates pink), baby blue (ick) and red. I figured red was the best choice, but it was sold out in her size. So I got the baby blue.

I told BIL, and he decided to get high quality dye and dye it a beautiful, rich blue. But he had to wait until I got there, much later than expected, on Christmas Eve, then wash it to remove the sizing, etc., then dye it, then wash it, then dry it. And the washer and dryer are at our brother’s place at the other end of the property, so it was quite a performance.

It was all worth it in the end, and she was delighted – even more when she knew the story. It made it more special, she said, to know it was a family project.

*The tree is a living one, and is now too big and heavy to drag into the house. Fortunately, it can be seen from most of the house through the sliding glass doors in the living room. I think it will be planted and a new tree chosen for next year.

Looks like Henry’s enjoying his new digs.

Up next: Christmas adventures!

My tree through the window

Usually, I close the blinds once the afternoon darkness sets in, but now the tree is up, I’ve been leaving them open enough that passers-by can enjoy my minimalist tree. And now you can, too, without ever setting your well-shod foot in Oakland. You’re welcome again!

I wonder if the tree will be standing when I get back. I’m pretty much betting that it will be sagging sadly against the wall or on the floor, and that June will have chewed it. If I hear scratching somewhere, I know it’s Audrey; if it’s chewing, it’s June. If I hear my water glass being knocked over and/or broken, its contents spilling all over valuable paperwork, it’s June again. Given how many times I say “no” during the day, I’m not giving the tree much of a chance.

Henry has no visible bad habits other than occasionally clawing the hand that feeds him, but I think he works his naughtiness out by running around outside, and the girls are trapped in a small house with less outlet for their energy. Sometimes I think you’re born with all the energy you’re ever going to have and just use it up as you go.

Speaking of going, I should. Wishing all of you the happiest of holiday seasons! May all your Christmas dreams come true!

It’s definitely the best time of year for mail, what with cards, letters, and presents stuffing my mailbox. Every day, there’s something new and fun, instead of just bills. Today’s mail was best of all, with a brand new shiny gold check card!

Before you think that’s nothing to get excited about, especially considering that today’s mail did include presents and a totally gorgeous handmade card, complete with red ribbon, I’ll tell you a story.

Last week, I ventured to downtown Oakland to return a couple of things a friend had left behind. She works at the venerable Ratto’s International Market, which has been in the same family and same location since 1897, so I figured I’d drop her things off, pick up one of their famous sandwiches, and get some stocking stuffers while I was at it.

I turned the wrong way off Broadway and saw a branch of my bank. I decided to deposit my paycheck and get some money before going to the deli. I tried twice to deposit my check, and the card was rejected. I went into the bank, and was told that my card had – gasp! – been cancelled.

Now, I had called a couple of weeks ago to ask when I’d get my new card, since the old one expires in January. I was told it was on its way. When it didn’t show up, I called again and they said I should have received it, so they’d cancel the replacement card and issue a new one, which I may or may not get by Christmas Eve. Apparently, they also cancelled my current card.

The teller actually cut my card into little shiny pieces. I can’t tell you how horrifying this is. Not only do you feel totally embarrassed (and convinced that everyone is staring at you and wondering what you’ve done to lose all card privileges), but you realize the convenience vanishes along with the card. I’ll have to actually go into the bank and fill out one of those slips of paper and show them ID before I can get money – and I can’t get money on Sundays! I’ll have to give the gas station guy money and then go out and put the gas in the car! What about Christmas shopping?

The horror, the horror!

Good thing I went the wrong way. It would have been mortifying to be unable to pay for my sandwich. Almost as bad as having my card cut up in front of me.

So I took out a bunch of cash and hoped for the best, which actually happened for once. And just in time to head out of town tomorrow.

Maybe I’m going to get that Barbie after all!

Hello, my name is Suzy, and I’m an Etsy addict.

Not a day goes by that I’m not checking them out, adding items to my favorites, and sometimes even buying one or two. It’s online window shopping – all the fun and none of the crowds. With the new austerity, it’s nice to know that a girl can buy herself something cheap and cheerful for under $10. And it’s even better knowing that the item is handmade and/or unique. By the time it arrives in the mail (along with the usual batch-o-bills), it’s like a present!

My morning fix is the daily Etsy email newsletter. I try and guess which item might be sold out, and I’m ridiculously pleased with myself if I guess correctly. It’s a variation on the game I play with the estate jewelry ads in the “New Yorker”. I pick the item I would buy if money was no object (an even more unlikely scenario than usual under the new austerity regime), and it is almost invariably the most expensive* one.

A variation on these games is the one my sister and I play when there is a particularly ugly window display. “If you had to pick one, what would you pick?” Never mind the fact that no-one has ever forced me to shop, and the possibility of this happening is remote. It’s still fun. Then we compare and decide whose choice is the least hideous.

It’s the little things in life. And the ones that make you laugh. Or imagine an alternative existence. Or just make you happy.

*A friend once observed that of all the people she knows, I’m the one that should be rich. I have to agree.

This morning’s arrest…

…was right outside my window. I was getting ready to go and visit Henry in his new and improved quarters on the back porch when I heard the siren. It stopped right outside my house, as you can see from the photo above.

Neither rain nor hail nor policemen can keep me from my appointed task, so I put on my coat and went out the front door. I no longer go out the back door when feeding Henry, since it scares him and he runs away. When I approach from the porch door, he either comes to meet me or stays on his couch and mews while I fill his dishes and talk to him about nothing.

Going out the front door also gave me an opportunity to see what all the fuss was about. One cop was handcuffing the guy, who seemed to be perched on a kid’s bike, and the other was doing something in the car. The cold morning air was full of incomprehensible radio sounds. I can’t imagine what kind of law you can be breaking, or trying to escape from, on a kiddie bike, but there you have it.

When my sister was briefly here last week, she said that she pretty much expected to see Henry in the house one of these days. I laughed this off, but she pointed out that first he was roaming around in the backyard, then he was under the porch, then he was on the porch. Clearly he was moving closer all the time. And that’s not even mentioning the bed and tent I have acquired for him, and accessorizing the couch on the porch with a fleece blanket. This morning, I attempted to cover him up and was rewarded with a couple of impressive scratches. Ah, gratitude!

I have to admit that the other day I had the back door open and he was peering through the screen door and talking away. I couldn’t help thinking about opening the door and letting him in, though I imagine carnage would ensue and The Beautiful June Bug’s little pink nose would be put severely out of joint. And I don’t see how I could let him out while keeping the girls inside…

My sister may, as usual, be right.

Hello, my name is Suzy, and I’m an addict.

Like many of my fellow afflicted, I didn’t realize I was one until my drug of choice was taken away from me with no warning.

The microwave died a sudden and inexplicable death. One moment, it’s merrily reheating coffee, and the next, it’s a giant useless metal box, taking up valuable real estate on my kitchen counter. My brother-in-law happened to be visiting, and he took a look at it. He’s one of those guys who not only understands how things work, he understands why they don’t and how to fix it.

He diagnosed the problem as being a blown fuse (too much coffee will do that to you). The next day, I took the dead fuse to the hardware store* and threw myself on their mercy. They found the correct replacement among the countless shelves of mystery wares, and when I got home, I tried to resuscitate the microwave.

Nope.

I dumped the body in the tiny garbage can (the green bin, for lawn clippings and compost, is huge and expansive, far too palatial for a girl who mows her lawn twice a year; whereas the garbage bin is a size zero), and noticed that it was now completely full, just one day after the trash had been collected. I’ll have to ask B if I can use hers for the rest of the week.

Faithful readers will not be surprised that yet another appliance has died in my care. I’m getting to be a serial killer.

The funny thing is, I didn’t even have a microwave until a couple of years ago, and now I can hardly function without it. I had no idea how much I depended on it for reheating coffee and rice and things like that. It’s a little embarrassing.

If Santa Claus is bringing me a Barbie for Christmas, I’d better buy my own microwave.

*I also made the mistake of going to the (un)Lucky afterwards. In my slightly hung over state, it was even more surreal than usual. All those buzzing fluorescent lights! All that bologna, or things that look like bologna! The smell of discount seafood! Note to Self: Safeway or no way.

Now, that’s free-range!

It also has nothing to do with this post. But I was so fascinated by seeing a chicken wandering around this urban wasteland (less than a block from my house) that I just had to share it with you.

You are so welcome.

Now that you’re all taken care of, here’s what I want for Christmas.

I haven’t been particularly good this year (or ever), but I’ve also never had a Barbie, and after nearly half a century of deprivation, I think I’m entitled to just one. And if so, this is the one for me!

Coming up next: why I need a 12 step program. Or two.

The cold weather does make it seem more like Christmas than usual. I know that those of you who live where there’s real weather are shaking your heads as I whimper and whine, but it’s a frosty 40 degrees out there (or 4 degrees, for the metrically inclined) as I shiver at my drafty desk this afternoon. California houses, besides not having basements, don’t seem to have insulation, either, or at least not adequate insulation. It’s like no-one wants to admit that it actually gets cold here in sunny California.

The chilly weather and the holiday season are definitely making me nostalgic.

I grew up near Ithaca in upstate New York, also known as Snow Central. Isn’t it funny that when you’re a kid, you’re never too hot or too cold? You can play in the snow and frolic in the icy Atlantic until your lips turn blue, and your parents have to literally drag you into the house.

Our house was on a hill, and we had five acres of land, with our own grove of pine trees. Legend had it that the land was given to a Revolutionary War soldier as payment for his services. I’m not sure if that was true, but it’s a nice story, and certainly the foundation of our house was very old indeed.

Around the first Saturday in December, Dad would get his red-handled axe from the garage, and we’d all tramp through the snow to choose our Christmas tree. I don’t remember who got to decide, but I do remember the sound of the axe ringing through the cold winter air, the thrill of the tree crashing down, sending waves of glittering snow into the air, the sharp scent of pine resin, the long, violet shadows as we dragged the tree home in triumph, as if we had somehow captured it.

My street in today’s hailstorm

I may have jinxed the weather by posting those sunny pictures, because it’s been cold and rainy ever since. Some of you may think that it’s always warm and sunny here, but that’s the southern part of the state. The northern part can be (and is), as the late, great Frank Sinatra once said “cold and damp”, which is probably why his house was in Palm Springs.

So I’ve been bundled up like a Dickens waif, since the house is drafty and I’m too cheap to turn the heat up. Fingerless gloves are a definite possibility if the overnight lows really do reach the freezing mark (32F/0C) they’re predicting.

Yesterday, I propped the porch door open in case Henry wanted to shelter from the storm. It turns out he did, since he was curled up on the couch* there within minutes. The girls and I could keep an eye on him from my desk, though it makes it a little crowded with two cats, my iBook, and filing system** (precarious piles of things & stuff). Not to mention essential items like the paperweight with a reproduction of Marilyn Monroe’s driver’s license in it.

As the day grew darker and colder, it occurred to me to bring Henry a blanket. I figured I might as well bring some food and water while I was at it, so I did. He took one look at me and fled in horror. Though this is not an uncommon reaction, I would have thought that the months of taking care of him would have given me some extra credit, but apparently not.

Peeking through the window a few minutes later, I saw him snuggled peacefully in the blanket. I hope he was there all night. Every night when I lock the doors, I always think of him out there in the cold and dark, and it’s nice to think he’s closer and warmer.

Update, 1 pm: It’s hailing like crazy out there. I can’t remember this happening here before. I risked life and limb for you, dear readers, to take that picture. I slid around on my wet and icy front porch and peeked around the storm-tossed camellia to get photographic evidence. Just for you! My hair is still full of melting hail!

*When I was camping here a year ago, my boss took pity on me and lent me a futon couch which had been rejected by his youngest daughter. I’m guessing they don’t want it back. It’s nice to have on the porch, though.

**I could really use Miss Lemon’s invaluable services.

Camellias at my front door…

…rose by the garage.