The morning is dark and windy, with rain and warmer temperatures in the offing. The normal winter pattern here in the Florida panhandle is three days of chill, then rain, and two days of warmth. It’s not unusual for me to wear my same summer shorts and t-shirt augmented by a vest with many pockets or a light jacket from November to February. Rare is the winter day when I reach far back into the cupboard for a pair of fleece sweatpants.
When Lou and I walked down to the gate early, I was reminded of Wuthering Heights and how I always imagined myself like young Catherine, wandering the moors. The silver-gray lights, with sudden showers of leaves falling seems loud as cannons, and the chit-chit-chits of squirrels sounds like they are running around inside my head. The light, soft mist isn’t quite rain, but I can feel my hair expanding, curling, growing wild like a vine. I’m back at the house now, making a cauldron of white bean soup. Lou curls herself up on a small rug near the counter, waiting for offerings of celery half-ribs and quarter-size slices of carrot. Buck is up now, too, drinking chamomile vanilla tea (a more gentle counterpoint to my just-ground dark roast black coffee) and working at his desk.