After landing, Bob picked up the rental car we would use to drive to Vermont, and we spent a couple of nights with Jim and Kathryn. We had planned a pizza picnic with Kathryn’s daughter and her family, but that fell through when her husband came down with a killer sore throat.

Here’s a photo of the previous pizza party celebrating Jim’s birthday in July 2024.

The weather was spectacular, perfect for rambling chats in Jim and Kathryn’s expansive yard.

I joined Kathryn in the kitchen to bake three “AB Cakes” from her Nan’s recipe book: one for the house, one for Kathryn to take to her friend with whom she would be making bread and butter pickles, and one to take to Vermont. It was a delicious, yet simple cake, involving only sugar, butter, eggs, milk, and flour.

Jim picked out a wonderful hike to Peppercorn Hill for just the two of us. It was supposedly one mile, but felt a whole lot longer due to the elevation gain.

We started inland with a view of Lake Maspenock before heading uphill to our destination.

Here’s Jim with one of many rounded boulders along the trail. Someone a long time ago might have thought, Hey, these boulders look like giant peppercorns, and that’s where we assume Peppercorn Hill got its name. No one actually knows.

“Funny story,” Jim said, “My last time here was with Joe, and we got lost. We took a wrong turn on the way down and ended up on a different ridge. Kathryn had to drive over and pick us up.” I wasn’t surprised. “For Joe, it’s not a real hike unless he gets lost,” I said, chuckling, but I spent the rest of the hike looking over my shoulder at every trail split, trying to memorize the way back to Jim’s car.

We eventually made it to Peppercorn Hill, one of the highest points in Hopkinton, to admire the spectacular view. I found it comforting to see tree cover all the way to the horizon in a world often scarred by construction.

I might mention that Jim is eleven years younger than I am. I, the oldest, and he, the youngest of six. Can you believe my mother had six kids in the span of eleven years? Holy moley.

Anyhow, I think I did a good job keeping up with that youngster. Jim went down in front of me, gallantly offering to carry my camera so I had both hands free to grab at small shrubs and prevent a plummet.

We swung by the grocery store on the way home, and Jim threw together chili and a salad in record time. We ate, talked about everything and nothing, and went to bed early.

I am uppity regarding bling, proudly surrounding myself with stuff that makes sense. If it isn’t useful, or takes up too much space, or is hard to clean, I turn up my nose.

Enter our new decorative fence, a collaborative between Bob, Lyle, and our go-to handyman, Martin—with nodding approval from me—involving polished, 3/4″ thick aluminum skeletons and pressure-treated pine.

Last winter, Martin removed four gasping Red Tips and a truck-damaged Mimosa, turning our backyard into an exposed scar. Good for the garden in terms of added sunlight, but harsh on the eyes. I agreed that we needed a focal point, a fence perhaps, something to divert our attention from the kitchen compost, the triple-shredded mulch, and the long-neglected farm next door.

Bob and I were perusing online decorative fencing options, none of them terribly pleasing or unique, when Lyle stumbled upon a stack of aluminum skeletons in a Sanford scrapyard. Skeletons are what’s left after the parts you need are cut out of a metal sheet. Lyle has been welding eye-catching garden gates from steel skeletons for ages.

These aluminum panels would be perfect, especially after Lyle took them to his shop and polished them to a gleam. The entire endeavor would be expensive, but our fence would be unique, and it would never rust. I gave the project my full support.

There were a few smaller pieces, which we asked Martin to mount on the pole barn he’d recently re-sided. All three installations have admittedly brought endless fun as we try and guess what shapes were removed and what purpose those missing pieces might now be serving. Apparently, we are hard-wired to seek function within the form.

Additionally, we invested in three sets of prayer flags to dress up the garden and both porches. We chose splashy, hand-crafted flags from Etsy in lieu of the traditional Sanskrited squares.

The Jay is made from these words:

Remember who you are. Remember what you love. Remember what is sacred. Remember what is true. Remember that you will die and that this day is a gift. Remember how you wish to live.
–From How, Then, Shall We Live? By Wayne Muller

The Crow says:

I am here to represent Him Who sent me.
I do not have to worry about what to say or what to do,
because He Who sent me will direct me.
I am content to be wherever He wishes, knowing He goes there with me.
I will be healed as I let Him teach me to heal.
–From Helen Schucman’s A Course in Miracles

I love how our flags draw my attention away from my everlasting To Do list, how the breeze makes them whisper, “Take a minute to admire my colors.”

Inspired, the beauty berries put on their most impressive show ever. Bling attracts bling, I think to myself, sitting between the wildflower flags and the aluminum panels, half expecting a peacock to strut into our yard.

Bob and Ned roomed together at Colorado University in the ’70s and have a long history of posing implacably behind their sunglasses.

We took Emily and John to lunch in downtown Denver at Park & Co, less than a mile from 1600 Glenarm Place, where I cooked and cashiered at Stouffer’s more than fifty years ago.

We spent two days with Rob and Sharyl, friends since 1990 when Bob and I worked with Rob at Data Entry Products (DEP). On Wednesdays, we’d leave work early and four of us would motor around  Horsetooth Reservoir in our shared boat, taking turns on a boogie board. I married Bob in July of 1994, and Rob and Sharyl married three months later.

Bob and Rob contentedly discussed many topics of importance in the shade of the big trees.

Bob and I threw in with each other in the spring of 1992 and began living together in my Loveland, Colorado apartment.

Eventually, we moved a few blocks away to a standalone house at 913 Franklin Avenue, which had a second bedroom for the girls. There was a basketball hoop outside the garage where we played many games of horse. We used the garage like a covered patio for cocktails with friends or to paint our daughter’s fingernails with pink polish. We called it the pallet house because our bedroom walls appeared to be constructed from pallets.

Next, we rented an old house on two acres with room for our saddle horses outside of town. This is where we stood on the porch and said our vows aloud in front of our friends.

That place was close to the Big Thompson River, and we rode our horses, Jesse and Penny, down there several times a week.

Now a medical clinic, this is where we worked until DEP sold to Lucas Varity, and we relocated to Williamsburg, Virginia.

Ten years later, we returned to Colorado, settling into a clean and airy apartment in Berthoud within walking distance to Bob’s new job at Biodiesel Industries, the grocery store, post office, library, and farmers’ market.

We did not miss having our own yard and gardens as we initially feared. The apartment was a short walk to nearby parks, all of Berthoud’s streets were lined with shady trees, and we had a roomy patio on the back of the building. We parked our bicycles and an under-driven 1995 Ford Escort in the back. At that time, Habitat for Humanity occupied the building next door, where I volunteered in their used book department.

Much remains of our old life along Colorado’s Front Range, especially our friendships. We fondly remember ice skating on Lake Loveland, riding our horses in the Corn Roast Festival Parade, hunting for wild asparagus, and happy gatherings. It was gratifying to visit places that were once part of our lives.

Our drive up scenic Highway 101 felt as adventuresome as it looks in the movies, only with Bob behind the wheel of a GMC Terrain instead of a red convertible and no one wearing a scarf.

We stopped to eat sandwiches from our cooler at Otter Crest State Scenic Viewpoint and saw a Gray Whale in the water far below.

Haystack Rock, home to Tufted Puffins, looms in the coastal fog, removing all hope of adding a new bird to our life list. Even if we’d brought a telescope, there would not be any puffin sightings on this day.

You take what you can get, so we settled for a big, wooden puffin.

I think wind farms are beautiful and am perplexed by people who don’t appreciate their simple magic.

It was a beautiful day along the Mighty Columbia.

Bonneville Dam was a must-see. Moving water always moves me. I believe it’s the negative ions.

The dam blocked fish from migrating upstream to spawn, so the engineers built a fish ladder.

It takes lots of muscle and DNA imperative to spawn another generation of steelhead or salmon.

When life throws you garbage, turn it into something flashy. At least this stuff is no longer in the river.

I knew there must be a good reason why this border collie needed protective eyewear, but didn’t have the courage to ask their owners.

An hour further, and Bob stopped in front of Gunkel Orchards. We were there for peaches, but after tasting their nectarines, we bought them instead, all in agreement that they had the best flavor.

The Stonehenge Memorial near Maryhill was another place Bob had visited during his work travels.

The next day, we drove north to Mt. St. Helens. This destination was on my wish list. As you may know, this mountain blew its top in 1980. I had seen it in its moonscape form five years later and was interested in seeing how its recovery was coming along.

Well, it still appeared scarred by the blast, but had a whole lot more green than it had forty years ago.

We stopped at the visitor center to watch a video showing the blast and hear some of the stories about that terrifying day. We were surprised to learn that the people closest to the eruption felt their houses shake but heard no sound.

After meandering through the museum, we went for a hike and Bob found a friend.

Amy stopped to admire many flowers, and one of them turned out to be an orchid.

We flew over Mt. Hood and could see Mt. St. Helens in the background.

So that was the sightseeing leg of our tour. I think we did a very nice job impersonating tourists.

Everyone in Astoria lives on a slant. This is why god made emergency brakes. Astoria has hills akin to those in San Francisco and Knoxville, Tennessee. Roads that drop out from underneath your car and plunge toward deep water.

Bob presented Tine with a Jedi logo flag because we’re really into flags these days, and he was pretty sure Tine would like this one.

Tine took us for a walk at a nearby demonstration forest where we learned a whole lot about forestry and tree management. If you’re wondering what’s a Clatsop, well, the Clatsop were the original people of this region. Before the white people came.

The forest is mainly planted in Douglas-fir and western redcedar. We got to see both managed and untouched forests on either side of the trail. While I’d love to say that Mother Nature knows best, the managed trees looked larger and healthier than the untouched trees.

Bob and Amy trying to identify a tree that is neither a Douglas-fir nor a western redcedar.

Everything out here on the Oregon Coast is ginormous, even the slugs.

Amy and I split off to do an extra loop and encountered some really big trees. This one looks like a cedar.

Next stop: the Astoria Column, an “artful summary of the triumphs, conflicts and turning points of the frontier.” At the base of the column is an image of a forest populated by animals and the words “Before White People Arrive.” Notably missing are the Clatsop people who had occupied the region for tens of thousands of years.

If you wanted, you could climb the spiral staircase to the top and look out across the Columbia River at Washington State on the other side. I thought this was a great idea, so up I went.

A view across the river.

After all that walking, we were ready for something to eat, and Tine knew just the place.

When I asked Tine for a low-traffic route to the river, she set me on course. The streets she chose were not whizzing with cars, but were instead populated by deer who regarded me with mild curiosity.

Tine had grown excited when she mentioned the pigeon steps and I soon understood why. They practically beg to be taken.

It was still early when I arrived at the river.

I saw a giant slug hugging—humping? can’t get the previous image out of my mind—a not-open-for-business food truck. Which was just as well because I found the slug unappetizing.

So I turned around and walked back up the pigeon steps, which took a lot more effort than I had imagined on my way down.

Tine was a wonderful host, and we were happy for the break between our drive up the coast from Cottage Grove and more touring ahead. Stay tuned for Mt. St. Helens, the Bonneville Dam Fish Ladder, and other interesting Pacific Northwest destinations.

We began our long vacation in Denver, spent a day with Amy’s older sister, Emily, and another day with Amy’s younger sister, Molly, visited some friends, and then flew to Oregon.

Bob had rented a place outside the tiny town of Drain, half an hour from Amy and Jasper. When I told our host I was a walkaholic, he pointed out a woodsy path behind our room and, in the other direction, the gravel road we’d driven in on.

I walked both ways both mornings, taking note of two little deer who were as curious about me as I was about them.

It was berry season, which added time and calories to the walks.

On the woodsy side of things, we encountered moss and lichen, something we have in much smaller amounts back home.

We stopped at a bakery on the way to Cottage Grove and scored some hand pies for breakfast.

Amy and Jasper live in a surprisingly spacious tiny house built inside a large barn.

When it was time, we sang the Happy Birthday song, which I am certain we are somehow born knowing, since I cannot remember ever not knowing how to sing it.

I’ve only met one person in my life who didn’t know what to do next. You make a wish and blow out the candle! Equally important, you must keep your wish a secret or it will not come true.

Amy was born on a Saturday, for what that’s worth. Bob was Thursday-born, and I arrived on a Friday.

Osha, now a mature dog (we remember her as a pup), has been with Amy and Jasper for as long as they’ve been together.

And we met their cat, Scrumpie.

Bob gave Osha’s comfortable bed a test drive after she got up to lie beneath the table.

Stools are cool, perfect for small spaces, portable for camping, and close to the ground for tending fires and petting dogs. By the end of the day, I had an appreciation for Amy and Jasper’s well-crafted lifestyle of simple relaxation, and saw how it reflected their down-to-earth values.

No Wifi, no TV, no cell service. “If you need us, just honk your horn,” our hosts told us. A writer’s haven if I’ve ever seen one.

I knew these were my people when I saw the loop trail. Bob and Amy were also ready to stretch their legs, so we set down our bags and went for a walk.

We noticed right away one tree that seemed out of place. We later learned it was a Monkey Puzzle tree, native to South America, thriving in Washington State as an ornamental.

The trail wound through ferns and firs which seemed to grow larger the further we went.

We were soon surrounded by moss and shrinking into the forest like Alice in Wonderland.

Fallen trees nurture forest life. After I’ve lain down for the last time, I’d like to do the same.

Here’s a tree that was once a small seed, which took root in the fallen nurse tree and now has grown straight and tall.

Now we were in the stuff of fairy tales, half expecting to see a wolf in a bonnet or a small hut with a very large chimney.

Back in the hideaway, we rummaged through our road provisions and settled on grilled tofurky and cheese sandwiches for dinner. Each time we reached for our phones, we realized there was no point. I wondered if I would make it until tomorrow to check my texts.

After sundown, we stepped outside to look at the stars and saw the lanterns.

If we’d had any doubt these were our people, the lanterns and the ball jar of crayons next to the guest book settled it for us.

The next morning, I took the loop alone and went beyond, finding evidence of mankind, a rusted car that reminded me of an upturned beetle.

I froze when I heard a loud snap. And froze again when I heard another. Perhaps I was about to see a bear! Holding my breath, I stepped closer to the sound, wishing I’d brought my invisibility cloak.

Time stretched as I watched the ferns rustle. Maybe it was an invisible bear. Finally, common sense prevailed, and I looked into the overstory to see a few squirrels knocking pinecones to the ground.

I turned and headed back. I’d had enough of an adventure. Two shelf mushrooms waved goodbye, a little mockingly, I thought.

Bob and Amy had enjoyed a good catch-up. I told them my bear story before diving into a bowl of granola, blueberries, and soy milk. We left replenished, fully oxygenated, with our sleep tanks topped off. Unplugging had been as easy as falling off a log.

Bob began planning our time out west last year, and I started training immediately. In the past, travel zapped me royally, but this time I was determined to return home unscathed.

On day two, after a good night’s sleep, we picked up our oldest daughter, Emily, said hello to her cats, Rufus and Cortado, and drove down to the Denver Botanic Gardens. Just the three of us on a brilliant day.

The air was as crisp as a fall apple with a full-throated “Colorado Blue” sky, a color we call “Carolina Blue” back home.

Many of the plants in their tropical collection felt familiar, reminding us of our summers with the girls in Belize, on Guam, and Hawaii twenty-plus years ago.

I cannot think of a better way to refresh and connect than a stroll among oxygen-exhaling eye candy.

Naturally, we lingered over the orchids as Bob identified species in his private collection.

We encountered a giant picture frame, and I saw how it made me both focus and detach.

We were drawn to a massive sculpture which I initially mistook for a real flower. When I realized it was made of glass, that only made it cooler. It shone brightly even after ten years outdoors, making me wonder how you would clean such a thing.

A bench—cleverly constructed of woven branches—beckoned, but we resisted and kept on moving.

These Dr. Suessian flowers reminded me of vintage hats.

We encountered dahlia blooms as big as Emily’s head.

By the end of the day, I felt calm and energized, and I knew this trip would be different. Here’s the formula I came up with for stress-free travel:

Always get a good night’s sleep
Walk around outdoors as much and as often as possible
Eat real food, staying away from sugar and processed food
Pace yourself socially, detach when necessary
Avoid screen time

And it worked! I returned home nearly two weeks later, aglow with memories and no worse for wear.

Denver was essentially a cow town turned hippie haven when I first set down roots here in 1972. Located on the last miles of flatland before the Rocky Mountains, Denver’s ecosystem is dry prairie grassland, treeless except for what grows along the rivers and creeks. And that would be Cottonwoods.

After we landed, Bob led us through Denver International Airport to the train, to the rental car shuttle, and to the National Car Rental lot, and within an hour or so we were at Mahlon’s door. He greeted us with great hugs.

Mahlon’s apartment was clean and tidy, a loud nose-thumb toward the “sloppy bachelor” trope. Seriously, uncluttered counters and (yes, I got a glimpse into his closet) clothes hangers all spaced two inches apart. There was just enough of everything and not too much of anything.

After lunch, I excused myself for some outdoor time. Mahlon walked me out to the sidewalk and pointed south, “Go down to Pecos and back,” he said, then turning, “And if you want more, walk up to the light,” he gestured towards Huron Street.

I strode off briskly like a loose pup, resisting the urge to leap into the air until I was respectfully out of sight, overjoyed to be moving after the long, sedentary morning. It was a spectacular day. Cool air, warm sun, Colorado Blue sky (we call it Carolina Blue back home) with flowering shrubs and lavender flanking the wide, level sidewalk. This being Colorado, one of the healthiest states in the country, other people were about: jogging, dog-walking, and pushing strollers.

This is when I spotted my first wizened Cottonwood tree. I stood in reverence, my affinity for Denver blossoming in my chest.

I remembered riding borrowed horses along the city ditches in the ’70s and ’80s and our rides on Jesse and Penny down to the Big Thompson east of Loveland in the ’90s.

A couple of days later, we had lunch with Molly and Shane and their longtime friends, Alex and Jade, at the Lake House in Littleton. Molly has several times mentioned how much Alex reminds her of me, and this was our first opportunity to meet. Molly was right, Alex and I have similar profiles and many traits in common. Someone mentioned that we should adopt Alex and Jade, and Bob and I enthusiastically agreed. So now we have five daughters!

Molly and Bob took the opportunity to catch up while the rest of us walked the Clement Park Lake Trail. This time I couldn’t help myself. I took off running and Jade sprinted to overtake me in her dress and hiking boots. Laughing, we returned to Alex and Shane only to burst into childish exuberance the next time either of us had the urge. Soon we were straying from the pavement to chase fat-bellied prairie dogs, Alex calling after us, “Don’t touch them! They’ve got mange. Maybe Bubonic Plague.”

A pair of boys wheeled towards us, asking if we’d like them to catch a prairie dog. “Yes!” we screamed and they flung down their scooters. The larger boy gave chase and at the last minute the chubby pest dove into a hole with a indignant chirp.

The smaller boy crouched low like a border collie, milking the limelight, and crept towards another plump rodent. Then with a wiggle of his hips he flew forward. For a minute, we thought the boy would win, but his intended target also scampered away unmolested.

We were more than halfway around the lake now and Jade and I had settled down, chatting idly with the adults about movies and such. We came upon some old Cottonwoods and I shared my thoughts about reconnecting to my years in Colorado and about how much I loved climbing trees as a child.

Jade, too remembered fondly her tree-climbing youth. “I haven’t climbed a tree for ten years,” I said wistfully. “All I need is a limb I can reach and I can walk my feet up the trunk,” I said. “The trees at home all branch out too far up to reach.”

“What about this one?” Jade asked and a minute later, she was up and urging me to try.

It was a hard-won battle. Grasping the branch nub, I got my right foot wedged between twin trunks, and willed my leg to raise me from clinging to standing while Jade cheered me on. I doubt I would have made it without her encouragement.

It took a long time for the euphoria to dissipate and settle into my bones. Since then I’ve felt connected and rejuvenated, and sure that I won’t ever stop absorbing the world of people, plants, and animals with childlike delight.

Jan 1 – I heard the shout, crouched beside a seedling with my loppers, and looked up to see everyone scrambling out of the way, the orange Monarch rumbling backward down the hill through the trees, a wobbling ton of crushing steel that finally met a tree it couldn’t conquer and shuddered to a stop.

Jan 2 – When Molly sounded the alarm, I was both concerned and proud that she had reached out to us after Emily was admitted with a lingering infection after her appendectomy.

Jan 3 – Overhand, underhand, I wound the tattered swap shop garland off our moldy porch lights, untied Spot’s holiday bow, and declared Christmas over.

Jan 4 – Only a faint hum lingered inside the house, a reminder of the all-night hissing refrigerator and its roaring companion, our tireless heat pump.

Jan 5 – Each photo — here the way Evie cranes her neck to look over her shoulder, here one of Stuart cocooned under my granny square on a chilly afternoon on the front porch after telling us he sold the contentious house to our evil neighbors, here one of what I did to Debbee’s imperial pumpkin custard recipe using Seminole pumpkins that I grew — eventually finds its place in our monthly online narrative.

Jan 6 – With a satisfying “whump,” I dropped a sizeable rail in place and straightened to see Giovanna, sun-dappled and staring at a large dead cedar leaning against an oak.

Jan 7 – She came to me through the woods, not as tall or exuberant as that first time years ago, and I greeted her with the reverence she deserved, crouching low to stroke her wide shoulders, letting her sniff my breath of noodles and cream, before straightening to throw a stick — not too far — a nice round piece of a bough that would fit her mouth.

Jan 8 – We press our lips together at the door, a movement well-rehearsed, and I return to my seat in the sun to watch for the car, a flash of blue turning left towards the airport.

Jan 9 – In front of my laptop, three seed catalogs, a garden map, and three order sheets, I pulled up the browser, created accounts, and filled shopping carts with the promise of good eating in 2020.

Jan 10 – It was just cold enough that my nose refused to stop bleeding while Susan pretended not to notice.

Jan 11 – Slipping the wooden step ladder onto my left forearm, I wore it to the next tree like the Queen’s hand bag, working my way up our property line with a bag of cotton strips torn from an old, blue sheet.

Jan 12 – Renewed beneath a grizzly beard, Jim showed us his room of bright windows, with the red and blue walls, hardwood floor, and his college drafting table.

Jan 13 – Shelly was sure I’d been given her plate by mistake, Amy shrugged — neither able to conjure the image of a Chili Relleno — but the crew-cut waiter assured me the mound of vegetables with the white sour cream drizzle was what I had ordered.

Jan 14 – Having averted my gaze, I slunk back into the hallway outside the senior center locker room and stared at the patterns in the rubber mat beneath my new, tightly-laced walking shoes.

Jan 15 – Her pupils, flat discs which caught no light, shot their dark beam across my midriff, addressing Shelley as we walked — an indication that we might not become friends.

Jan 16 – On January 15, I went out on a limb, betting a handful of seed against the hard freeze of a typical southern winter.

Jan 17 – The beagle looked concerned about something in the woods behind us, and after Shaine’s stories about rabid raccoons and non-hibernating bears, I also began straining at my tether.

Jan 18 – When I asked my mother if she had given thought, in her 50’s, to who, if any of her children, might take her into their care should she ever need it, she said, “I just kind of hang loose with Jesus. I let God decide what to do with me, and I just mosey along.”

Jan 19 – When I got to the line, we set down the dead tree, Bob looking behind himself to see the pin and me, too, then, nudging my end a little to the left, I pulled my hat down over my ears and smiled.

Jan 20 – Sunlight shone off the gulls, the sky above the river below the tailrace full of swooping, squealing action.

Jan 21 – Fat-breasted Robins wrestle worms from the pea-green moss beneath our bare-limbed crepe myrtle on a day so cold I’m pinned behind a cracked window, while their call to action—as urgent as the spin of tanker tires and lumber loads—fails to lure me outside.

Jan 22 – Reading in bed another inescapably brilliant short story, I’m delighted, inspired, and discouraged.

Jan 23 – I could see how badly they wanted this, their sprouts eager and blushing, as I pushed the bulbs into their soft, new bed.

Jan 24 – Listening to the blended hiss of water and vent air I imagine the feel of razor on skin, the hot water running down my back, soap dripping, eyes shut, and dutifully peel off my clothes.

Jan 25 – I swivel the roller dial and listen for a few minutes, inexplicably comforted by the voices coming through the plastic grid of my new thrift store radio clock.

Jan 26 – We closed our eyes as instructed, one hundred of us, and I felt myself expanding, rising, filling the cavernous barn with each heartbeat, boundaries forgotten.

Jan 27 – The documents in their clear plastic case have the aroma of stale ice cubes, and I wonder what the kids will smell when they open our frozen last wills and testaments.

Jan 28 – Listening for a change in the engine, I hear only the artificial white noise designed to alert pedestrians of our approach.

Jan 29 – I opened the window and leaned towards the screen, gasping, and reached back to stir the chipotles crisping in our cast iron pan.

Jan 30 – The bitter beans simmered but did not burst while trucks roared up and down the hill to the stump dump.

The feeling of time slipping past, the winter of repose evaporating to leave a solid residue of hard work that could have been avoided had I only applied myself mildly during these cold, sunny days, made panic rise like phlegm in my chest.

Jan 31 – He sighed and leaned aside as if to spit, then adjusted his keyboard and plugged back into the nightmare on those giant dual screens.