On the hike, I will burn wood.

There are times when the simple pleasures really are. Melancholy ebbs and flows, washing in or out an assortment of tidal flotsam, and sometimes when you’re looking at a typical evening with the increasingly usual wry acknowledgment that life ain’t always all it’s cracked up to be, (but, then again, maybe it is...or more,) the best option is to add a java log to the fire, and an inch or so to the scarf you’ll be knitting forever. (Because you only add an inch about twice a year. And yes, I did check to make sure all the bathroom exhaust fans were off before lighting the pseudolog.)

Jeff wanders in to see if I have any interesting television plans for the night. Oh, possibly a crappy Hallmark Christmas movie in an hour or so. More than likely, he will tire of his chair soon, and--as it is too late for the usual distraction of coffee--go to bed. Gabe wanders in to admire the bogus uniformity of a flame born of compressed wax, coffee grounds, and who-knows-what-else, and challenges me with the following query: Who would win in a fight between someone whose superpower was telekinesis, and someone who could teleport? I predict that it would be difficult for the teleporter to lose, but...then again...it might be equally difficult for him to win. I should hope that if I ever find myself gifted with either skill, a fight to the death will remain unnecessary. But, at the very least, I would have an easier time acquiring real wood as needed, for burning.

I’ve got a wad of cotton, infused with liquid “Bio-Ear,” tucked into my left hearing appendage. It’s some sort of concoction of herbal extracts, designed to scare off the nascent ache in my eustachian tube. This will do nothing to impair my enjoyment of the badly written dialog I’m fixing to experience shortly, on cable tv.

Did I mention I’m sitting in a rocking chair? I really am. That’s another comfort. Odd though--to observe oneself a)knitting, b)watching the fire, and c)rocking, at a life interlude when other relatively uncontrollable facets of life have left you thinking they accidentally switched you with an 85 year old, is another one of those things you can merely observe with the aforementioned wry acknowledgment. Well. I hope that 85 year old is having lots of fun, and maybe even hiking the Continental Divide Trail! Actually, I’m going to assume, right here and now, that this is the case, because it makes me feel good to think so. I very much hope, in fact, she will send me a letter that I can keep, until one day, possibly at 85, it’s me.