Anderson Hall from the top of Bluemont Hill
on an overcast Saturday

Thursday at 7:30, just before my class, the snow started to fall. After an hour, an inch of fluff covered the cars in the parking lot, and the snow had abated.

I let the class out about a half hour early because some of the students were anxious about driving on fresh snow. I needed that half hour to get home at a near normal time, finding myself driving for much of the way behind someone so paralyzed by the snow that he couldn't get his car to go more than 20 MPH no matter the speed limit (which ranged from 30 to 50 along this particular stretch of two-lane road with no passing zones anywhere along its length) and no matter that the roads were clear and dry.

I exercised my vocal cords and middle finger all the way, until we reached the four-lane stretch. Although I resisted so much as a glance at him when I passed, I did take my frustration out on the accelerator. He should be home about now, three days later.

I haven't done that in a while, cussing and gesturing. Of course, it was dark, and I didn't let my rage go beyond the vocalizations and gestures, which he could neither hear nor see in the darkness. I know it was childish, but it felt good and I arrived home purged.

But today for lunch, I ate a veggie burger sandwich as penance for my road rage.

Friday the kids had school. Additional snow fell overnight but not enough to close school. I had the house to myself for most of the day, and finished a lot of grading before picking up more papers in the evening class. The piles of grading loom as ever.

Saturday I spent a few minutes scanning my shelves for a copy of The Grapes of Wrath, to no avail. The public library holds several copies, all checked out, a good sign, I suppose. Lately, I have found myself going back over known books rather than venturing into new territory. Probably not a sign of anything.

I made a trip to a bookstore in the afternoon to replace my old copy. I suspect the old copy was one of the books I tossed about ten years ago when we discovered a family of mice living in a box of books in the basement and dining on the pages and the bindings. As I recall, I lost some Santayana, Eliade and Yeats. Maybe the Steinbeck suited their tastes as well.

Shirley's surgery on her arm went well on Thursday. She remained in the hospital for two nights, returning home Saturday at midday. We've borrowed a lift chair for her, because until her arm heals, she will have a difficult time pulling herself up from other chairs. I've got dibs on it when she no longer needs it.

Sunday morning at the fellowship, Brenda B. from Lawrence spoke. She is from the Lawrence area and works with Michael the geologist in an EPA-funded organization that deals with environmental concerns on tribal lands around the country. Her presentation focused on lands in Pine Ridge in the Dakotas, and around Clear Lake (north of SF?) in California.

There's a football game tonight, I hear. Because I watched so much college ball this fall, I rationed my viewing of pro ball, so this game will be the first professional football game I've watched from start to finish this season.

This entry is looking a lot like that grim photo up top; the barren-choir look has prevailed here lately, complemented by gray or washed out skies. I can't change the weather or the light, but I can end this entry.

And there is that football game. It's under lights. And I hear they broadcast in color now.