Tiny Update.

If you love rain, or February, or Carolina, then this is the sort of day for you, isn't it?

It rained. It's going to rain more. Then—and oh, friend, are you going to like this—it may snow. Keep an eye to the west-southwestern sky starting, the fancies say, some time tomorrowish. Keep an eye here starting tomorrowish for updates of the less tiny variety. We have houseguests. The forecasting is limited. It's raining.

Front Porch.

Feels like it's 7 pm sometime in April, though the sun's still too low in the sky for that kind of thing. Quarter of five at the close of February, instead, the kind of weather that points all of our noses toward spring, the dog's, of course, included. I don't know if we ever quite fully made our sixty-five degrees today, but we were sixty-three, sixty-two, somewhere in there, little breeze, sun, mainly blue sky. They want rain from here on out, which we need, so OK. The birds are busy. Crows, songbirds. And we're too early yet for me to say so, but I'll say it anyway: The oaks and maples are starting to look fuzzy in silhouette on that ride home back down 70 and from here on the front porch, too, are starting just barely to think about at some point in the not-too-far-off-now of budding out, of leafing out.

Just to be able to sit out at the end of the day is for this moment, anyway, plenty enough.

Local Conditions.

It's warmer today here on the Piedmont, friends and fans of approaching spring, though I hasten to add that after this little spell we're in for rain and then another week of good cold before we bounce back: this is how it works here. This is how it always works here. Hell, we're not even within spitting distance of the late-March freeze yet. Still: In the sun this morning, standing in the driveway without my hat, I felt good. I watered things. The climbing rose on the side of our house is sending out exploratory red leaves. The transplant azaleas are hanging on. The pansies are making a comeback from the systemic neglect I was trying out in January. So, maybe, am I, though the bookshelves are still unshelved and the books are still and still in their boxes.

Let's work our way back into this slowly, shall we? At 5:04 pm in 27244 it's mostly cloudy, weather riding in from the west and south, and it's 52 degrees. The current conditions in 27401 can't possibly be too different than that, but once I make it back home, if they are—if we're getting frogs, say, or locusts, or are in need of the blood of the lamb—I'll make a note of it. Otherwise, tune in tomorrow, when it may be sunny and 65, depending on when the clouds set up and set in.

Oh, Monday.

Cold. Wind. Sun. Winter. I've been neglecting the forecast of late—the move, the book, the winter. As soon as I can get books up on these damn shelves I promise all two or three of you I'll be back on board. Meanwhile, it once more no longer rains.

Stiff Wind.

I'd like to note that though for most of January and February it's been fairly windy all through the city, I'm pretty sure even so that it's windier here at 709 than it was over at 1303. I think we're damn near to being on top of the hill that is College Hill even though we don't live in College Hill. It can be a bitter dogwalk if you leave without the layers you might need in, oh, say, a wind.

Happy Sunday. If you love a slow project, the you'll be thrilled to know that we now enter week three of the bookshelf imbroglio. They look great, man, but they should: I've been painting things white so long it's like I've got snow blindness.

Flame Thrower.

Warm enough to walk the dog at four this afternoon minus a jacket. Sunny. Fancies say rain or snow by tomorrow mid-morning. Winter gasping not maybe just yet last, but gasping.

This morning, at the Sherwin-Williams corporate store—the trim at 709 is Sherwin-Williams, and TMR yesterday accidentally found a Sherwin-Williams corporate store whilst trying to find a dining-room-table-store; we're building built-in bookshelves to match the existing trim; we're also in search of, ah, a dining room table—the dude who made my trim paint was watching The Military Channel at top volume, and on The Military Channel was a gentleman explaining, in great and explicit detail, how one might make, if one so desired, one's own napalm delivery system.

Bookshelves painted. They match. I ain't delivered napalm in any direction whatsoever all day, though, which here at ANYLF we'll score as a (second) success.

Good Wind.

This morning, it was warmer out than it looked like it would be. Tonight, it was colder out than I expected it to be. Can't get my bearings. Dog at the front door sniffing and barking at nothing. Me, too, truth be known. Sun and sun today, and a good wind, cold riding in all day. February. Cold all this coming week. One wonders, though, about how many more of these cold weeks are left. Our last freeze can't be that far off now. I'm not hoping for it yet, but I am saying it's out there. I'm ready to sit on the porch. I'm ready for the evening light to hang on longer. Already it stays light damn near to six o'clock or better. Come on, daffodils. Come on, all else. I'm ready.

Pretty Little.

This is the kind of pretty little rain that makes the dogwood out front of 709 look even more ready to cut itself on, makes the daffodils push further out of the ground, makes me eye the lawnmower under its tarp in the back yard, even though I won't need it for weeks yet. It's cool out there, people, hat and coat cool, but this is the sort of rain we need and need badly, a slow rain and fog and mist that soaks everything through and will give us all something to hang onto once tomorrow scours itself clean and delivers a cold night with temps where they ought to be, dry and crackling down into the twenties. Snow's forecast for the weekend, though how much of that can be relied upon is debatable. Wind and sun in the interim. But now, friends and fans of gray and gloom, now it is wet and chilly and perfect in its own way, a day that demands something cooking a while in the oven for dinner and perhaps, perhaps a little something over ice. Or a cup of tea, if a cocktail's not your thing. Maybe a magazine from a couple weeks ago, one you haven't gotten around to yet. Maybe a television program. Maybe nothing: maybe dinner and early to bed and a good clean start tomorrow. Whatever's your poison, though, do stand in the window here a bit this evening before the sun goes down, and watch your neighbors' lights come on, watch the street go dark. More rain overnight, most likely. Good enough for me.