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Last week we were blanketed under five inches of snow and a half inch of ice. It is not my proclivity (at the moment) to write about the weather. What can a person say about the weather that others have not heard? Winter is not novel and neither are my thoughts on it. Perhaps it is how someone arranges words that burnishes a hackneyed thought.

Granddaughter delighted in it. (Ok, maybe there is something novel to be said about the second Louisiana blizzard of this very young year.) Every time we braved the outdoors, Granddaughter pointed while shouting gleefully, “Boue!” That is French for “mud.” After a week of playing in the white stuff, I could not convince her that snow is not the same thing as mud. To a toddler, it holds the same allure, I suppose. As for me, I delighted not in the snow so much as her reaction to it. What was intangible and indeed ineffable became reality for that passing moment. (And what that idea is, well, Gentle Reader, that’s for you to interpret. You would know if you were paying attention.) Sometimes my best elucidation comes from commenting on others’ thoughts. Right, Kathy Dee?

In the evenings, I worked assiduously on the crochet sampler afghan that I had begun in October but soon shelved for a dearth of free time. But now the project is complete, just in time for a break in the frigidity. The pattern is called Sampler Crochet Afghan by Annie’s Attic for those interested in such things.

What has been keeping you warm, busy, or otherwise, Gentle Reader? Do tell. I’m in more of a reading mood than a writing one.