First Night.

We went out wet and cold, and we come in clear and really cold. There's some bookkeeping needed here—some chat about how much rain last year, whence and whither the drought, and etcetera, but tonight is not the night for that. Tonight is the night of a belly full of TLK collards and blackeyed peas and pork five or six ways and a little glass of whiskey here on the armrest beside me and the hated Floridas kicking the hell out of the coachless Cincinnatis on the TV, on mute, and the prospect of maybe finishing the sistered rafters out there in the outbuilding on the morrow and maybe even some insulation and a stove fire that/which heats the building and all of this is to say: oh hell and damn, blogoweathersphere, here we go one more time around the maypole, or whatever it is we wind around year after year.

Cold and cold and cold coming. If you do have a ceiling to insulate, now seems really to be the time. The fancies are wanting to give us some winter to start this thing off.