Right now it's a cold rainy night in early December in Ohio. The rain will turn to snow by morning. It's already snowing in Wisconsin, across the great lakes and into Michigan. I'm thinking of that lovely ending to Joyce's "The Dead," the "snow is general all over Ireland" passage. In our yard a scraggly tree still hugs heroically to its last batches of leaves. I've batches of papers to grade, which I wish would blow away like autumn leaves. Our car is on the fritz, there's nothing sweet to eat in the house (old boxes of jello don't count), and I'm seized with an Odyssean sized portion of procrastination. I think it's time to hunker down in the cave around the fire and tell stories. Or maybe just go to bed early.

Hope you're all well, wishful, and renewed in spirit. And Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to boot.

Chaio