The Dead of Winter

We are solidly in the DEAD of winter. Every year, I reach a point where I proclaim (or mutter or yell, depending), "I'm sick of winter." Surprisingly, it hasn't happened yet this year. All I need to do is look at the news about what the rest of the country is going through--California is burning, snow blankets New Orleans, the southern Atlantic coast is freezing--and then I look out my frosted windows at a mere few inches of snow, which is pretty mild by Pennsylvania standards. Yes, it hit -11 yesterday morning, but I didn't have to go anywhere. Neither did my semi-retired husband. Our furnace kept the house comfy. 

I have nothing worth complaining about. 

Granted, that rarely stops me. 

Today, I do need to set foot outside. I have kitchen scraps that need to go to the compost heap. I have a bag of trash that needs to go out to the can. I haven't made the stroll to the mailbox yet this week. But it's supposed to go "up" to 27 degrees, which will feel balmy. So, I'll wait a while and keep doing what I've been doing: writing the next book.