Cold Rain.

Half an inch? Maybe less. We had better than three-tenths when we got home from the Thanksgiving meal the Learning Community kids cooked tonight: turkey, ham, two kinds of stuffing, three kinds of potatoes, one burned. I do love a flailing Thanksgiving meal. They had pulled all the coffee tables together in the house and pulled all the sofa cushions down onto the floor and made a seated table for twenty-six. One of the prettiest things I've ever seen. Homemade pie. Corn. Green beans. Rolls. It was a meal for damn sure and certain.

The inspection comes back here at 1303 with a punch list. AMR believes the best. I fear the worst. More tomorrow. More tomorrow. Always something else tomorrow. All this good fortune this fall and maybe that's what's got me worn to the bone: It's not done, it's never done. There's always something new, something else, something tomorrow. There looms on the horizon the prospect of a Thursday Thanksgiving morning -- it had been Wednesday, but a furnace dude is scheduled now to see if the furnace is going to explode, or somesuch thing -- at any rate, there looms a possible Thanksgiving Thursday morning of nothing, of no news good or bad, of no change, of nothing, nothing, nothing. I could summon up some thanks for that.

A little more mist and rain may drag through overnight. Clearing tomorrow. Something else may work through over the weekend. The cold hangs in. Damn near December. The nights are shorter and shorter. The solstice is out there, not too far off. Not too far off.