I saw a white crow this morning. It was only about a half-mile from where I’d seen one five years ago, so it might have...
Today is a love song to the man I married 29 years ago. On April 5th, 1986, I faced my groom in his rented tux and we promised each other our undying devotion in front of God, family, and friends.
Here is a little secret of mine: Sir Ernest Shackleton makes me write. I hate to write. I also love to write. It is most always an endeavor of inner conflict. For me, writing is like running a marathon: uncomfortable and demanding in the process, but oh so rapturous when it has been accomplished. Yet, I still try to find every manner of excuse to walk away from it. Then I think of Shackleton. I think of his impossibly steadfast fortitude in the face of everything that should have told him to give up. I have it so dang easy. Food, drink, plenty of sleep, and a toasty warm cabin.
Powder. Graupel. Sugar. Slush. Dust-on-Crust. Smud. Corn.... They are all descriptions of snow and there are as many descriptions as there are incarnations of our winter friend.