There are two giant piles of leaves in the backyard that are now covered with snow and will probably remain there at least until spring. I haven't written anything of substance for months on end. Three cords of wood need to be stacked. There is a squeak from the front end of the car. I didn't make it to the top of La Barillette this year. We have no chicken stock. One thing is certain: tuning skis with a bottle of Marsannay and a wall of music can only mean that all things must pass and that it's time to turn and face the strange.
Though living abroad, here at Casa de Hatcher we still pine away for Home Sweet Home, especially on the forth Thursday in November. Rome, Georgia; Athens, Texas; and Paris, Tennessee. More appropriately: Paradise, Utah; Bliss, Idaho; and Beverly Hills, Nevada.
To run in mountain fog is to dream while awake. To feel somewhat lost in a world so familiar. To sense the drifting weightlessness of the cloud yet to absorb the direct pressure of a larger weather system. To listen to music at once incongruous but also consistent. There is solace knowing that everything above you is white.
