We did get our Christmas tree yesterday morning . . . up at the high school, at the end of our street, where we bought her from some goofy young hockey players and their fundraising moms. She's a real porker--tall and fat and blocking all light from the front window--and for the moment she's sagging in the dining room, waiting for Tom to trim her into a semblance of straightness. 

Paul has today off, so our plan is to decorate tonight. Back in Harmony, of course, we always had the very worst sort of trees--shabby, skinny, weak-waisted little spruces that we cut out of the back forty. But now that we're city slickers, we are wrestling with this Bigfoot. Do we even have enough lights to cover her? Nobody knows.

There's cold torrential rain forecast for today. I think I'll make chili for dinner. In the morning I'll do some editing; in the afternoon I'll talk to Teresa about Byron; in between times I'll mess around with housework and press on with my comic-book project. No poem writing till I get those books done. Still, they're a creative endeavor . . . of a sort.

Anyway, I've got my sonnet workshop coming up this weekend. I'm confident I'll be able to write then.