It’s very quiet here this morning…. Inside anyway. Out there the wind whistles and trees sway, the owl bell rings and the rain blows sideways.

In here, I can hear the gears of the grandfather clock grinding slowly, marking the seconds passing by.

It doesn’t help my situation that my green thumb, that I thought was atrophied, is itching to get started in the garden. And lest you think me mad, I have evidence out there to support the idea. Sweet peas that went to seed last summer are sprouting, along with several other annual flowers that lived in what used to be the jungley part of the flower bed. There’s a potato plant growing up pretty well considering it’s December and all. Although I don’t remember planting any potatoes in that spot, but what can I tell you? It’s sprouting anyway.

I’ve heard of Johnny Appleseed who planted apples all over the place in his travels. But my garden seems to be the planting ground for his cousin, Tommy Tubersower. It’s all I can figure.

I’m thinking about changing the look of my diary. I know this means hours of fiddling in the customizing labyrinth, but hey, what are rainy windy winter days for?

January would be a good time to go through the cupboards and drawers and take things over to the Salvation Army. I could use a lighter load come Spring. Helps me think more clearly. And believe me, I need all the help I can get with that.

Shoot, I might even work on my story today. There’s never a lack of things to do around here. Might as well add doing the laundry to my list.

Into the fray . . .