Well, it's snowing hard out there--a sticky, postcardy sort of snow, glorifying every twig and garden stalk.  Peering into the dark, I'm struggling to guess accumulation: certainly there's enough to shovel. The storm is supposed to die down by mid-morning, so we should be able to hit the road at a reasonable time. But that doesn't prevent me from feeling, in the present tense, a little daunted.

This holiday has opened awkwardly. Yesterday my older son called from Chicago to tell me he was recovering from a bout of something-or-other and wondering if he should travel. My heart sank: my in-laws have set their heart on this big party; we all have, really. But I behaved like a sensible mother and coached him through a Covid test. And fortunately, as soon as he tested negative, he started feeling better. Last night's texts were quite cheerful, so I hope we've dodged that particular bullet. But now Tom and I are immersed in this weather situation, which could affect how easily we can pick up the Chicagoans at the airport in Connecticut . . . 

I will stop fretting and think of good things. I'm sitting here cozily in my couch corner, drinking hot black coffee and admiring the Christmas lights among the cards on the mantle. Chuck has been safely stowed at the kennel. My suitcase is packed. The wrapped packages look beautiful in their bags. Prepped in the refrigerator are boxes of smoked fish, special cheeses, black cake, and three kinds of cookies.  I've chosen Updike's Rabbit Is Rich as my vacation novel. I wrote a sonnet yesterday. Things will be okay, surely.