Smokey Mountain Breakdown

I drove into town today to pick up some drugs at the pharmacy. Have been sticking pretty close to home with the cold. It's bitter--not summery or fall bitter like the pucker of a green persimmon, but winter bitter like dryness of hearth ashes long dead. There's been pitiful snow squeezed from clouds too frozen to shiver.

On the drive down, the creek is iced over and in another few days it will be solid ice. I'm attracted to those white stretches broken by violent black water. It's the contrast of it I love. Hard with liquid, dark with light, stillness with motion. The temperature sign at the bank said 19 degrees at three in the afternoon.

I didn't stay in town long--guess I wanted to get back to my warm little nest and there wasn't much to do in town at any rate. The library was packed--cold weather brings bookworms out of the ground. I've been trying to slog through The Story of Edward Sawtelle by David Wroblewski but I think it's about time I admit defeat and declare it unreadable--at least by me. It's been the book I've been keeping on my bedside table to read at night and in the morning, but for some reason my eyes just glaze over when I pick it up. Blah, blah, blah, Almondine. Blah, blah, blah. So I checked out Dan Simmons' Drood. What's not to like about Dickens and his weird personal life? It's a nice chunk of book--hopefully I'll have better luck with it.

The trip back made my day. Sorry I didn't bring my camera with me because Mt. Cammerer was covered in snow and just stunning. If I'd had my camera, I might have chanced a drive up on The Parkway to get a good pan of the mountains. It was most likely closed--the rangers shut it down at the first snowflake. But I wish you could have been there to see it--it was lovely.