Dense Fog.

At least that's what we had at 7 a.m., when the dog asked to go out. Things were a little less dense later on, but still gray and excellent and heavy and slightly colder than I'd been expecting. The sun burned through by 10:30 or so, and the drive in to work on 70 was almost crystalline, a thin gauze left in the trees from the fog and the low sun hanging in the southern sky throwing a kind of deeper orange on everything, which was already orange to begin with. The sky went white at the horizons.

I guess I should say that this entire exercise is a kind of homage to my grandfather, who for years kept a journal of what the high and low temperature that day had been, what the weather conditions were, what he'd had to eat. At Thanksgiving or Christmas some debate would bubble up about what we'd had for lunch three years ago, or what wine he'd served with the turkey last time, and he'd go straight to the archives, one or another little red or brown day planner about the size of a checkbook, and there, in his penciled capitals, would be the answer. A Willamette Valley Pinot. Barbecue from Whitt's. Tomato aspic. Rain on Thanksgiving. Clear and cold the Friday after.

I don't know if he keeps that journal any more.

The stands of hardwoods are starting to go gray, that brittle winter shade that hangs on through March and into April, long after I'm ready for things to green back up again. And it's been months since I've seen the retarded man at the end of his driveway there in Sedalia waving at passing cars. I'm worried something happened to him, worried he may have died, or worse, that they had to put him somewhere. We go to Nashville tomorrow. Everything is stacked on top of everything else.