Wood Stove.

I have been out back and I have lit the woodstove and what we are now waiting for is a good fire, a warmer writing shed, the first day wherein the first thing is to write instead of to wire or insulate or what have you. Those things still need doing, but a deadline is a deadline, and I'm calling that space usable if not for everybody then surely for me. I'm wearing all the clothes there are, and I'm going out there. Insulation goes up on the walls this afternoon and tomorrow afternoon. But mornings are no longer for working. Mornings, instead, are for working.

It is, it seems, historically cold, so that's something to tell the kids about. The Winter of Ten. Surely the fancies are running logos complete with iced-over lettering, but I haven't seen that. Nor have I seen much internets since yesterday, when my fancy machine went dark. It's being sent off to Santa's workshop, my dear, and they'll fix it up there, and then bring it back here. So. Who knows when we'll get back to the forecast. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not. All depends on all else. What I can tell you in the interim: we stay bright and cold until Friday, when we may go gray and snowy and cold. I need a load of firewood. A roasted chicken. A Dukes of Hazzard Thermos full of soup. I probably need to install the heater I bought. Hard to keep the fire stoked overnight.