Another 10-degree morning, with the furnace grinding away and the cat streaking back into the house after a mere 60 seconds on the stoop. Even my laptop keys are cold.

But as you know, I like weather. Yesterday A and I trudged down by the windy water, then wrestled our way through the cold to do a bit of shopping and eat lunch. It was fun, breasting the breeze, our hands shoved into our pockets, our hats pulled down low, and of course talking talking talking, which is what we always do. I think we've never been quiet together, not for thirty years.

With the inauguration looming, I've been desperate to embrace these long friendships, a sharp wind, a handful of notes, a bluejay. What is the opposite of Trump? Almost everything beautiful in the world.

I've just finished rereading Daniel Mason's North Woods, and now I've started rereading Robertson Davies's Salterton trilogy, mostly because I thought it would last me well over two long bus rides. But I'd forgotten how sharp Davies can be--for instance, "Nothing is more fatal to maidenly delicacy of speech than the run of a good library."

The run of a good library = the opposite of Trump. Laughing into a cold wind = the opposite of Trump. Playing a noisy card game = the opposite of Trump. Curling up in bed with a warm beloved = the opposite of Trump. The resistance starts at home.