We knew, as kids, that 32 degrees meant freezing, because it was only when the temperature got that low that we were allowed to wear pants instead of skirts to school. It's not something that happens often in Florida--the freezing--but starting around December I would put a dish of water on the top step most evenings in the hopes that it would turn to ice in the night. It never, ever froze, and while I'm not sure if that was because I picked the wrong night or because there was too much water in the dish or because the overhang on the side of our trailer kept out the worst of the cold, I am sure it's something I've never forgotten. My winter mornings for years were a little bit like finding out anew daily that there is no Santa Claus.
I was nineteen before I actually saw frozen water that hadn't come from a freezer, at a lake in Asheville with Pete and Jonas and Phil. Every winter since then I have considered returning to my little dish experiment, but I am scared and childish and shrinking from disappointment. So I don't, even though I know that someday it might.
We all realize that Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, right? And that you can all expect buckets of sentimentality from over here for the next week or so? Ok, just making sure we're all on the same page.
The flannel sheets have gone back on my bed, and whichever of the fellows was here earlier this year making fun of my flannel sheets can just bite me. They're cozier than cozy.
I have a dentist appointment tomorrow, an appointment that I just remembered as I'm sitting here eating candy. I do not like dentists, and while I have been joking about having him replace all of my teeth with gold ones so that I'll be prepared to go marauding on the high seas, I'd really rather just stay away.
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