Fifty-Five.

If the Toad wasn't sleeping, I'd walk him to the downtown market. When he wakes up, I may bundle him and do just that. We are not cloudless, but it makes no difference. Most of the time the sun's coming through full bore. It's 55 degrees in the shade of my front porch. This'll move wrens into the open eaves along with the squirrels. This'll push the daffodils out of the ground. This'll bloom the pansies. This'll swell the dogwood buds out there on the tree I was sure was headed for death. It's mid-January -- this January, of all Januarys -- and it's this weather. It'll be frigid again by Saturday. Get outside, get outside. Get a rake or something. Do a job. Pile things up. Move things around. Get outside.

Freezing Rain.

I somehow had forgotten—had it rained in the new year?—how pretty the neighborhood is in the rain, how good the steeple looks back there in the back yard lit up in the night, in the fog. That was what I was working on before I went to bed last night, as the rain thickened towards syrup, as the weather dropped yet one more delay upon the school system. Ice on the back deck this morning, and on the mower, the lawn chairs, what tree limbs I could see. A freezing rain rains twice: all morning long everything dripped down into the yard, down onto the driveway, as we warmed through forty degrees.

They want fifty degrees or better tomorrow. And sunshine. That should about finish off what last remaining holdouts of snow still dot the ground out there—in the shade of the trash cans, in the shade of the building, in the shade of the shade.

The sun's trailing through these kitchen windows as we work through afternoon and into evening, and the dog's making eye contact, which can mean only that she knows the sidewalks between here and the park must be mostly thawed, must be ready for even an arthritic aging coyote. It's colder out than it looks, friends and fans of weather, so be warned. Wear a hat. I got one strand of lights taken off the porch before I packed it in, came inside to think about outside. Still: Never too cold for a dogwalk. And now I've asked her what she thinks about that. And now we have to go.

Skate Away.

Joni Mitchell's 'Blue' is an album I generally reserve for the leadup to Christmas, and for later in the day, at least, but something about this set-in damp cold that's sitting down over us this noon makes it right. The Toad's on the floor, playing at rolling over and gently, gently banging his head into the underside of the coffee table. It makes him happy. He has announcements. Explanations. Scores and highlights. I have half a headache from having been up off and on since 5, when the Toad first woke up. We got him down some, but AMR ended up feeding him at six-something. There is a fog on this house. There's a haze outside. We seek equilibrium.

Classic southern winter day on track, if the fancies have it right: at some point we should be low-to-mid thirties with a pretty steady rain. The teenaged Boy Scout in me sees Bob Smallwood standing on one mile or another of the Georgia Appalachian Trail in weather much like that, hollering out, 'It's a great day for Scouting!' Do what you will with the politics of that organization, but our troop camped in weather.

The novel, the squirrels, the planning for the spring, the understanding of solid foods for babies, the daycare, the naptimes, the sleeping times—maybe if I just say these things out loud enough times, I'll understand them. Too much to ask to solve any of them just yet.

Baby Sat.

We're supposed to be warming as we head into the weekend, but that's a cold morning out there. Snow frozen hard again, ice in the driveway, and a cold, cold building. Still: I like the idea of having to warm it each morning instead of running the little through-wall all night every night. Maybe someday I'll spring for the fancy heat pump. For now: layers and kindling and a hat and firing that stove as hard as it'll go and the wee ceiling fan up there in the peak of the roof to spin it all around.

I am this morning a brand new man: AMR and I did go to dinner and the movies last night. Alone. Without the Toad. Try that one on for size, friends and fans of parenting. And a word of advice: try it on before seven and a half months. We should have done this long ago. Long, long ago. I'm happy to see the melon-headed man this morning. Don't get me wrong. I am. But I was happy not to see him last night.

Updates? The same, the same. Snow cover. Squirrels in the building. A halfassed plan about this last third of the book. This Friday is not vastly different than any other recent Friday. Weathervane on the steeple back there says the wind is coming out of the south and west. Not much cloud. Cold. Mid-January. Some kind of warmish wet thing (50 degrees?) on tap for early next week. We'll be most likely gone over your Saturday-Sunday, in keeping with the new station plan around here, but we'll see you Monday to start your work week, Gate City. Keep it buttoned up out there, and buttoned down.

Memory, Speak.

There's still snow and ice over most of the yard and already the sun is headed down again, which means not much except that the backyard sundial continues to tell its one time, which is winter. Couple that with what direction the thin light is sliding into the house from—from which the thin light is sliding into the house—and we can start to guess at o'clock, can be sure of something post-lunch and pre-cocktail. Add now, please, a child who suddenly won't much nap, and it makes for kind of a slow day here at 709, a plodding one, one that feels as though its middle's been taken out and what remains is a hazy memory of coffee and whatever's happening now.

I don't remember Christmas that well. I sure as hell don't remember the fall semester. I think I had a medium day at the desk yesterday. Today was not as good. We're out of Cheerios and juice. We have no crackers. We have barely enough diced butternut squash to carb-load the Toad for a night he only half the time sleeps through any more. We are short on beer and medium on whiskey. We have firewood. A few long-sleeve shirts are laundered and hung. We do not need anybody to come get us. We are light on supplies, but we will survive the night.

It's cold out there, and holding cold. Tomorrow we sniff at the edges of forty degrees, so they say. I could hope for that.

Cold Week.

Colder still out there, people. We're headed for twenty overnight, and all that ice still on the sidewalks and streetcorners will for sure and sure stay ice through at least midday tomorrow, if not a day or two more. The dogwalk was treacherous for man and beast alike. The sun was out, though, which seemed to count for something.

You know what they want for the weekend? 40s and sun. From this wee update -- still cold, clear now, still cold tomorrow, generally cold, etc -- 40s and sun seems fine, seems something to cling to.

I've broken my rule. The kindling's not cut for the morning fire. Nor is the larger wood. Already tomorrow's off to a shaky start.

Freezing Drizzle.

Cold out there, people, and socked in. Even this morning there was still some freezing drizzle. Major roads looked good, minor roads looked a little less good. As our day care wagons are hitched to the county's whims and busses, my money says we'll have the Toad home another day tomorrow. And we better use that money while it's still there: December's gas bill sorted itself back to the top of the pile today, and it appears this past December was a bit chillier than 2009's version. No money, no sunshine, no juice in the fridge. I been downhearted, baby, ever since the day you left.

Here's the Fed's take for the rest of the week, which is nearly balmy by comparison: highs of 35, 32, and 35. With sun. Don't look for too much melting in the shady spots, I guess is what I'm saying.

The squirrels are now stealing insulation from the building and carrying it to their nests up in the trees... which is I suppose preferable to bedding down in the building. Got the doctor's go-ahead this morning to work on the soffits so long as I don't do it with anything heavy. Then he told me to be careful on the snow and ice. But doctor! It hurts when I go like this! Don't do that, he said. But doctor! How will I ever make it to Carnegie Hall? Practice, practice, location. Out, squirrels. Steal the insulation while you can. Make those tree nests cozy. If my gas bill is going to have commas in it, then you're on your own.

Winter Storm?

At least, boys and girls and friends and fans of snow days, it's snowing now. It was not this morning at whatever-zero o'clock when the local county suits called the day's proceedings off, and it was not at any point before now, which we'll call threeish in the afternoon, but it is in fact now snowing, and it's cold out there, so cold that damn near anything that falls seems like it'll stick straight away, so here we go. Those folks what get paid for this kind of thing want 2-4 inches of snow covered over by something between a tenth and a quarter-inch of ice. They also want the temps to hold right about where they are for the next 48 hours. It won't be apocalyptic, then, but it'll be worth keeping an eye on. We'll see if tonight's annual rib roast grunt-and-belch NCAA pigskin championship party actually happens, or if I have to eat all this beef myself.

Though it's worth noting that the fancies have been saying and saying that this thing was going to start up, and it's been holding and holding. Could be a lot of cymbal-crashing and kazooing and spraying the roads down with brine and cancellation and then end up being a good deal more drang for not so much sturm. I'm not even sure which way I want it to go. When I was a kid, I always knew. Always snow, always more. I miss that kind of fierce glowing zealous fundamental certainty.