Generations

I know.  I know.

It seems all I do is write about the weather and tonight is no exception.

The ice and the snow and sleet and the rain-it's all here.  Right now.  Howling outside my door.

I've already eaten my supper, put on my PJs, performed my ablutions and slathered on face cream.  The contacts have come off and the slippers put on.

I'm ready.

My favorite corner of the couch awaits with an afghan to pull over me and a book to read.  I'll add to the mix a glass of wine or four and let the weather bedevil someone else.

All my little ducks are in their rows.  The boys are off the treacherous roads and have got the LEGO (LEGOs?) out again. (this post spelled correctly and thank you for not calling me out on it in the last one)   The dogs are lolling by the fire.

Maybe I talk so much about the weather because it is ingrained in me.  

Granny would talk about the loads of laundry she did or how many cans of beans she put up that day.  Some days she'd chronicle a trip that she and Grandpa would take to Portia or Jonesboro or just write about a run to the Piggly Wiggly. 

But every single day Granny's diaries detailed the sweltering temperatures or lack of rain. She'd start off every entry with the temperature and the time of sunrise.  She'd confer with Grandpa about what the colors painted in dusk sky were telling her and what it meant for the weather tomorrow.

I'm not that prolific.  And I hold no illusions that anybody would want to read a detailed account of my day.

Yet.

I'm drawn to those old bibles and calendars and journals and scraps of paper that she's kept all these years.

So even if I don't chronicle my day and I've never put up a can of anything, I am connected to her by the weather.

It inspires me.  I feel compelled to say something.  I need to put fingers to keyboard in gratitude that I have a warm, dry, comfy, loving home.  

Maybe I feel it most keenly when the winds howl and the sleet bombards my roof.

Waxing poetic?  Philosophical?  Legs?

Well, I'm off now.  The book awaits as I go ahead and sip the wine.

I'm betting Granny is writing about the ice, too.

I can't wait to read about it.