What?

Soon as I got the house warmish, I went to bed. Weary. And, of course, a ruckus in the night. Never fails. It's a cat of some type, either a feral house cat or more likely a bob cat (which I think is the North American lynx) defending the compost pile against a coon. Much snarling and hissing. I throw a few rocks, to settle the contention, wondering why I live where I do. Then I remember, rekindle the fire, roll a smoke. Not so much a choice, as just the way things happen. Extensive seasonal flooding. The bottoms along the river are sheets of ice, the hollows, up where I live, hold several day's frost; in the shade everything is white. Essentially winter. The lake is freezing around the edges. The geese have gone. A pallor among my co-workers that I associate with not having to hike in to their house. What we assume. Black ice in the bottoms. Stuck at the front desk all morning, as the receptionist. Spent the time reading about and looking at paintings by Sargent. He does good hands. I brought the book home for weekend study. The hospital crew was in, to get all their stuff. The pub needed to store food in our refrigerator for an event tonight, so I cleared out space for them, which gained me a free lunch; and Jennifer left me some deviled eggs (too bland, but fine with a dash of hot sauce) and egg rolls from the Doctor's Party. She also gave me two bottles of wine. I'm set for the weekend, so the brisket will have to wait. And further, in the interest of recycling, I saved all the wine bottles for a local guy who melts then into very nice whatever you call those things you store a stirring spoon on between stirrings. Three cases of bottles made his day. TR came back in, after dropping Meagan off for "Nutcracker" rehearsal, which allowed me to get home just before dark. The new heater kicks on at four o'clock, and tonight I didn't even start a fire, since I didn't have to cook. I'm staff tomorrow, so I can continue my Carter studies. The archives go on forever. And because the museum has them all, in house, it's impossible for me to not go through them; I know more about him, and his family, than I do about my own. It's nice to, as Olson said, know something well. I do tend to study things closely, a habit I indulge increasingly as I do less physical labor; and I love it, watching tadpoles for hours, befriending a fox, reading through a box of newspaper clipping from the 1940's.