In the gloaming eve, as the heavy greying blue clouds hint at more snow to come…somewhere, sometime…the spirit most usually withdraws, sighing gently as a close to the day.

The shutting of the door, folding into companionship, warm food and the body wrapped in flannel, absorbed in prayer and thought…the inner life unfolds with twilight…

Welcome February…shortest month, rich with reds and pinks, rose petals and white lace…strawberry dipped chocolates…midnight wine glasses in overly heated restaurants…the underflow of murmured chatter. We glance out through frosted glass…knowing, feeling that despite predictable bitter March gusts ahead…February is the border between winter and spring; the winter’s farewell tip of the hat, the ice-winking…and the grand Cupid exit…

Slipping gently on ice into the month of pinks and creams…reds and shades of red…and dashes of deepest black…

Ground Hog Day…and what of it, really? I mean, really!

Old Man Winter, Lady Snow, Lord Wind and Sister Lake Effect toyed with us and found us wanting. They headed in a westerly direction, out to the political scene in Iowa, making mischief and searching for exciting precipitation. They sat down together in the middle of the great plains to enjoy high tea.

They celebrated well. ‘Pass the frost, please’ and ‘How delicious; layered permafrost with a gropple topping’.

I am bored and so is Phil, our regional rodent of renown. No snow, no shadow, no sun. Six weeks is the verdict.

Heading north today…toward the city, toward the lake, toward spring…

I am giving official notice to winter and all the dull, iced vagaries.

Whatever the sun, moon, stars and thermometer wish to do is…and I quote the Germans, ‘Mir Egal’.

I am done with January and have traded in the grey and blah for my pink, red and white coffee mugs…and red candles…and pink roses…and chocolates.

Living well in the softening center between winter and spring…

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.