The little northern city by the sea is steeling itself for yet another big Monday storm: two inches of rain and high winds. Lately, one's been arriving to start every week. But at least the leaves are off the trees, no snow or ice weight yet, and I am hoping for the best with our giant brittle Norway maples.

Yesterday I finished the Christmas cards, had a confab with my mother-in-law about Christmas plans, made a chicken dinner and an apple pie to enjoy with our neighbor, read a lot, and went for a walk. Tom, however, spent the day in the basement, sanding, running power tools, and by afternoon the scent of wood finish was rising through the house. He is making me something for Christmas, and I am politely staying as blind and deaf as possible. It's the magic of the season: the ability to know nothing about what's under my very nose.

Nothing much planned for today, at least for me. I might make red beans and rice for dinner. I might watch the Bills game late in the afternoon. We might go into town and walk around among the lights, if the rain holds off. The holiday spirit is upon us, and T has done an unwonted thing: he has made reservations for us to go out to dinner on New Year's Eve. We rarely do anything that night, but this year we will enjoy a multi-course dumplings-of-the-world feast at Bao Bao Dumpling House. I'm quite excited.

Of course you already know I'm easily excited. I like treats; I'm ready to be happy. Probably that's a bad characteristic for a poet. Maybe I should be more dissatisfied.

And, who knows, something huge may be about to happen. We have lived in this town now for seven years. That's a fairy tale measurement. Will a cranky dwarf emerge from a tree? Will a witch turn me into a toad? Will my prince be whisked away from our palace and transformed into a wisp of smoke in a glass jar? I am an elder sister, after all, so must be prepared for punishment.