Outside the living room window, there is a pussy willow tree that was just beginning to bud. It is now encased in a coating of ice, as is everything else. It looks like it might be January out there, except that in January '03 there were two feet of snow. As always, Rudy is delighted, rolling and flipping and sliding. The Hotdog, on the other hand, ventured just outside the door - there is an awning over a concrete slab by the kitchen, and then quickly returned to the couch.
My Road Runner cable connection is down, and I am using the phone line right now instead. Maybe it is from the ice storm, so I should be more patient. But it irritates me that regardless of service interruptions, I still receive the same bill every month.
Ten years can seem like a long time ago, or a moment. On this day in 1993 Mimmie died. When I think of the things that have happened in the past decade - Bob getting his master's degree, five job changes for him, me getting my doctorate, three job changes for me, the house in Samsonville, the growing up of nieces and nephews, getting Edna, Rudy and Sophie, getting published for the first, second, third time, it seems like a lifetime. But when I think of Mimmie, of the other people who have passed on, and the animals who have gone over the trail, it seems like yesterday. "Next spring, if I'm alive," she would say every year, when she talked about gardening plans. So I guess her leaving in the spring was somehow appropriate.