Darkness comes so much earlier than I am prepared for that I know it must be winter. The leaves have turned to mud, then frozen; last weekend ice sheeted a bridge so that I crept across it in first gear, with no attention to spare for the dozens of cars collected along the guardrail. Sunlight has taken on a miraculous quality, the sky turned pale and cold. My poor California blood grows sluggish and the haul out of bed in the morning harder even than usual.
In New England tradition, we warm ourselves thrice over with wood - in the chopping, the hauling, and finally the burning. J is sharpening the chain-saw now, and will soon be waiting on my writerly self to get cutting. Just as soon as I finish my Thanksgiving leftovers, I'll dig out my work gloves and Carhartts and join him. Chopping wood goes right up there with the rest of the SADS remedies, to which I also would like to add sledding and tea. [link via Cassandra Pages]