Word Raccoon is furious with me. She says I have been hogging the keyboard and she wants a turn.

We all know what that leads to: overly sentimental tripe. Which is in itself a cliché, if you ask me. 

I fed her a Kind bar, though it didn’t help her disposition at all. Trust me, she was not kinder. 

Dang raccoon.

She is still upset about the scarf sorting last night, too, wants to know WHY I didn’t stand up to Stanley.

I protested when he tried to take a scarf I wanted. Mostly, though, I agreed with him. 

WR has been browsing for new scarves. Already. She’s counting on her toes the open spaces on the scarf rack and begging for my credit card number. I told her she could just make a wishlist. I peeked over her shoulder and saw some great boho and art-inspired scarves. One fox that I shook my head at. No raccoons. Whew.

Before six this morning, I was marinating chicken thighs in Italian seasoning and olive oil with the smallest brag of balsamic. I chopped potatoes and tucked them beneath the chicken like little shoulders ready to take the weight. 

The crockpot hummed along, pleased with itself. It’s black and sleek, not one of those cheerful floral ones that make you feel like a woman named Betty who only dreams of chicken. Mine looks like it minds its own business. I appreciate that in an appliance. 

(Sorry to all Bettys. I had a hilariously bawdy aunt named Betty who always made me blush and called me young ‘un. Her mashed potatoes were legendary, and I’m quite sure she dreamed of more than chicken. I first tasted venison at her house.)

Stanley is helping me organize the pantry (God love him), which means I’m also making baked oatmeal (apple and fig) to use up the mountain of oats I seem determined to accumulate. I think I still buy the size container a full family used to finish in a month. Habits have longer memories than some people do.

I think of my children every time I make oatmeal and toast. My dad taught me that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and he wasn’t wrong. Catching people before the day scatters them, fresh thoughts, fresh energy. Feeding them for what’s to come. 

After putting the chicken in this morning, I sought out Mary Ruefle’s essays. (I’m almost finished with her collection, just in time to meet my Goodreads goal for the year.)

One ordinary Anglo-Saxon monosyllable, din, gets shaken open by her the way a kid shakes open a bag of trail mix. Suddenly everything is spread out on the imaginary table: the bright bits, the plain bits, the parts you eat first, the parts you ignore until there’s nothing else left. Ruefle sorts her meanings like that, pulling the loud things to one side and the quiet things to another.

She talks about the things wanting to be heard over the din, and the things hoping to be heard under it. I’m not explaining it right; it was beautiful. 

I tried writing about it but I started out writing poems by hand today because that’s what the Raccoon wants: ink and paper and a little bit of mess. There’s been a catch in my throat when I write lately.

The din is within, you know? 

So our efforts were…pale. 

WR deigned to submit some poetry while watching Oh. What. Fun. this afternoon. I haven’t seen Michelle Pfeiffer in anything in a minute! It was a cute Christmas movie. She slayed in a textured, cream-colored pantsuit at the end with a waistband that must’ve been four inches high. Makes me wonder if I’ve been too hasty about pantsuits. 

And that black ruffled polkadot shirt!

WR just stuck out her tongue. She’s right. Although Michelle rocked it, we would never wear those together. We need our color! As a matter of fact, WR was really disappointed this morning when I dressed her in a gray zippered sweatshirt. 

I’m going to give WR the keyboard for exactly one minute before yanking it back. Fair warning. If you don’t want to hear her be overly dramatic and well, who knows what she’s going to say, peel off now, lovies. 

Anyway, here wee beastie, take the wheel. 

Ahem. Thank you, Drema. It’s about time.

What was it I wanted to say? I can’t remember now. It’s more of a feeling than a statement. 

Something about the intensity of the sun in the winter and how it, mixed with the snow, brings the white to my mind, too, and how I remember every time I look out the kitchen window and I see that blue, blue winter sky, I remember listening to a Hardy biography and changing curtains and how I was told every scene needs to be lit and how winter sun does just that and more. 

I felt enveloped in hearing about things I had seen at Maxgate, and how I felt as if I knew the man when of course, I didn’t. 

I thought about Stonehenge and how I didn’t get enough time there and how I would’ve liked to sit on a stone for a bit and for me, they held literary significance and I wondered to how many others there that day they did.

Winter trips me up. It reminds me of all of the things I love best. My throat tightens with everything I want to say. Writing is great, sure. But sometimes you want to share what you have to say face to face with those you care about, or at least see them. Pictures don’t talk back.

Thank you. I will not be taking questions at this time. 

And on that note…Drema, that is, I noticed that WR plugged in the Freewrite earlier. I hope that means more words are coming. We like the fire, not the ice. We’d take room temperature, though.