"I Only Count the Foggy Hours"

I am invariably puzzled when I come upon the phrase printed on a sun dial: "I Only Count the Sunny Hours." It isn't hard to see the truth of the statement. It's obvious, and hardly worth mentioning. But is that supposed to be a good thing? As if the sundial's inability to register life's varied moods were an act of will, of denial, and a healthy one at that?

It was foggy this morning, and the streets in our neighborhood were somewhat slick. We proceeded around the block in the dark at a slower pace, and at one point I slipped and made a dramatic recovery, wrenching my back momentarily in the process.

The snow is gone, and the social element of the holiday season is over. It was grand while it lasted. 

Big family gatherings, a dinner or two with friends, breakfast with my cousin Pat, dominoes and lasagna (a fine combination!) with my sister Nancy. 

Hilary spent one afternoon baking cookies with her friend Carol. We stopped over to visit our friend Nadia, who's recovering from knee surgery with the help of a high-tech ice machine, and enjoyed an afternoon visit from another couple who were returning a hat I'd forgotten at their house a few days earlier.

It's been several years since we last tried to talk ourselves into attending midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, but we kept the house full of music, most of it vocal and "churchy" but not specific to the season—though Bach's Christmas Oratorio  and some carols performed by the Alfred Deller Consort did show up on the playlist.

One foggy afternoon we drove down to a viewing site at the airport out into the midst of the runways to see if we could spot the snowy own that's been reported out there. Success! Thanks to a gentleman from Kansas standing nearby with a very fine spotting scope. We then drove to the Fort Snelling Veteran's Cemetery nearby to take a look at the tombstone that was placed recently for Hilary's mom. There seemed to be a lot of traffic in the vicinity—people returning rental cars, light-rail trains whizzing by. Well of course, we're at an airport, and it's Christmas!

Now the hunkering down commences. After several weeks of too many sweets and too much rich food, we chop up some stray vegetables for a wholesome salade Niçoise. Fire in the fireplace. And books. Having finished The Invention of Curried Sausage by Uwe Timm, I decide to reread Penelope Fitzgerald's The Blue Flower. (I must be in a "German" phase.) Hilary has been working her way through the "Blind Justice" mystery series by Bruce Alexander.  

The festive season has come and gone. I hope the snow returns soon.