THAT'S us ... the Valley Floor in the Willamette Valley. Snow like this is rare, but thanks (?) to arctic breezes we've got it!
This is the back yard, where the accent lights that shine in the trees during the summer now light up the snowy branches above. The little pump house looks a little lonely out there. No clematis climbing up the lattice either. Everything is asleep. (Maybe not the ivy on the tree. I don't think it ever sleeps.)
This is the same path I cleared of leaves not that long ago. Fairly soon it will be muddy, but now we're enjoying its pristine beauty.
And here are our Christmas lights. I always put them around the front window. The stained glass piece is one my sister made for our mother. Before she died, she told me she wanted me to have it. Its beveled glass edges are prismatic and they reflect all sorts of wonderful colors. Outside the snow is gathering, almost too deep for my boots. Maybe 5 inches of fluff.
Keeping us warm are cookies fresh from the oven and a fire in the fireplace. As the Mister is tearing apart the old shower he's come up with dry fir that needs to go somewhere. It surely makes a warm fire.
Now I have a poem for you that my cousin, John Fenimore, wrote to give his wife for Christmas. It is lovely, I think, and I guess he is preparing a memory book too. Here it is. If you use it, please give him credit.
When stories come together,
each one a separate page.
A book is filled with memories,
made precious as you age.
Each chapter sets a time in life,
expressed in words untold.
Each taken from your memory,
recalled when you are old.
Share your book with others,
the ones you hold so dear.
Let them read the stories,
you’ve added through the year.
And when your book is finished,
just leave it next to mine.
So I can read the memories,
of how we spent our time.