Today for some reason, I recalled the tragically hysterical day when Dad and Mom ventured cautiously into a nearby small town theater to watch what they thought was a documentary on Alaska.

It was not.

It was one of Steven Seagal’s thick jawed, martial arts, clunk headed, high body count, ‘F-bomb dropping’, inane films…and astonishingly, my parents sat through the entire thing.

It was one of the rare times Dad described something or someone as ‘stupid’ multiple times…in quiet fashion.

I believed they hoped, if they remained in the theater that civilization would somehow right itself as the credits rolled. As I said, ‘stupid’ was uttered more than once. The whole mess was only slightly rectified for them with an excellent dinner…and I’ve been chuckling all day, just thinking about it…

Just received an email from the Kidney Foundation…(about car donations)…telling me that they have missed me.

I just donated a car this past spring.

How many cars do they think I own?

I figured out my problem today. When I get dressed and leave the house, I get nothing done; minimally nothing.

When I remain home and in my pajamas and am left alone to direct everything from Command Central (my bed), I accomplish all sorts of things.

All I need are pens, paper, books, a phone, my laptop, the TV remote, a flash drive, financial files and something to drink.

I remember reading somewhere that Sir Winston Churchill directed a large portion of World War II from his bed.

He is a man I understand.

The morning was silent, grey…worn down after a tight week of work, meals, politics, illness…and all the nonsense of systems gone wrong, people inadequate, property taxes raised and what on earth would come of all the suffering in Ukraine and in the eastern lands?

With a sudden rattle and deafening cawing and scramble…with a mad fluttering, a crowd of energized winter geese honking wildly…rose up over the rooftops…sinew and muscle obeying the orders of the Creator…above the weary earth…the simplicity of an ordered instinct…resting in the direction of the flight…

I step into the kindergarten room and close the door. I look over at the snippy snappy little one sitting in the corner who is watching me; the same girl who questioned whether or not I was possibly ‘God’ or maybe just ‘old’ back in September.

She looks at me and says, ‘Mrs. Algarin, you again?’

I sigh and look at the ceiling. ‘Child, I am here to the bitter end’, I respond wearily.

‘Oh’ she answers. I suspect that she is severely disappointed.

A hearty voice booms out a cheery greeting to someone I can’t see…a conversation continues down the hallway and fades. I can’t know the outcome because I am in the other room. Who spoke? Are there plans for lunch?

January meals; we charge against the wall of grey cold armed with only a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich on rye, crisped in curried butter; a bowl of cold, snappy sharp vinegary coleslaw and a mug of black coffee with fresh cream, boiled strong. This is a gut cleansing lunch meted out in bits and bursts and bayonets; heated with friendship and talk of the storm, politics and the playoffs.

From the other empty room where I remain alone, I imagine the battlefield…caffeinated steam rising up beyond the window and over the dirty edge of the Genesee river…as we ready ourselves for the final week of January.

This is how I remember feeling most of the time in high school during the winters…an odd combination of terror and invigoration…wanting to remain forever under thick blankets while standing late at night outside when the snow actually crackled and split with cold.

Watching blue snow that glittered brightly under the moon…eating scalding hot french fries with spicy mustard as I walked home…not being able to feel my finger tips while my tongue burned…under a watching white winter orb.