. . . and here is the tree, looking in this peculiar light, as if it's set against the sepia backdrop of a photographer's studio in a Robert Altman version of a western. Despite the misleading color, the tree is fat and magnificent and by far the fanciest we've ever owned. Fortunately, Tom did manage to infuse a little old-fashioned Harmony flavor into the experience by chainsaw-carving the trunk so that it could fit into the stand.

I slept horribly last night because my brain would not stop ticking away at the list of all of things I have to get done. On Thursday the next batch of family arrives, then the remainder on Sunday, and meanwhile: editing and painting and baking and housework and menu planning and finding enough chairs for everyone and driving around the boy to do his shopping. Why my brain thinks that it ought to waste my dear sleeping time endlessly reciting this list to itself is beyond me.

But at least it's snowing--a lovely light flutter--and that makes me happy. And the house is warm and the lights are bright and a son is sleeping in the back room and the cat is blinking sweetly and my friendly neighbor brought us a loaf of cranberry bread and we're not packing boxes or loading a moving truck.