Now that the frightening warm weather has passed we are back to our comfortable cold. The thaw left a huge patch of ice at the end of our driveway so it's nearly impossible to cross without slipping. I predict at least one more tumble unless I get out there with a bucket of salt and liberally spread it around and soon. Maybe some rocks will help too. Anybody got a bulldozer I can borrow to scrape that ice? Don't get me wrong, I loved the warmth but it just seemed like a harbinger of bad things to come. Like the weather gods were taunting us with what might happen just before pulling the rug out from under us and sending down some freezing rain or a mighty blizzard or some other catastrophe. But enough about the weather and my fatalist tendencies, let's have some writing.
February 11--Boris Mikhailovich Kustdiev, Shrove-tide. Elena knelt on the floor staring at the gingerbread house nestled under Grandma's Christmas tree. Elena was six years old and fascinated by the tiny house. She expected the swirling white snow on the base, the trees, and the roof to be cold and to melt when she touched it but it was hard as stone and tasted sweet when she licked her finger. She loved the sleigh full of happy people pulled by a friendly brown horse and the colorful windows of the house with peppermint sticks for frames. But her favorite by far was the musician who stood in front of the house with his accordion. He wore a fur hat at a rakish angle, had a warm colorful woolen scarf around his neck over his dark purple knee-length coat and shiny black high boots. She knew that the music he played made everyone around him laugh and dance.
Eh, this is clunky and much blander than I imagined. But it'll do.
--Barbara
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