The passage of time has stolen my original post-retreat thunder. I had lengthy pearls of prose for you, complete with pictures of the hotel room and my pre-return Starbucks latte at Dulles International. But the post-retreat flu - which still rattles my lungs today - has hindered my spirits and left me feeling disheartened. (Even the cat gives me icy glares every time I start to cough. I can just hear him thinking, "Oh must you??") Earlier today I finally unveiled the KR holiday cards in the boutique. These have been in the works since August, and my new printer swore on a stack of bibles that we'd have the whole shipment no later than a week from today. That's December 6th for the calendarically challenged. These are truly beautiful cards that I know people will enjoy, but somehow I don't think many people will this year. Could it be something to do with, um, I don't know, only giving people 19 days to buy and send them before Christmas? Note to self: Don't write in blog when not feeling well. Resulting words might not lift people's spirits. In local news, the pond seems to have frozen overnight. My view has thus shifted from rippling blue waters to a still frozen sea of white. Soon the ice-fishers and snowmobilers will arrive, which becomes my winter entertainment. (I mean really, who needs that nasty bald eagle anyway?) But this also means it's time to bring out the ice skates for another season. My neighbor - the human Zamboni - loves to clear skating paths that meander in lazy loop-dee-loops around the pond. If you've only skated indoors before, the experience of skating on these paths is rather like eating real cheese for the first time after only snacking on Cheese Whiz all one's life. If you like skating (or cheese), it's pure ecstasy.

And finally, I believe I'm almost, almost, almost ready to part with the collection of vintage niddy noddies I've been slowly acquiring for the boutique. Here's one shot for the road.

I've been sick as a dog since the KR retreat but promise to write you with all my thrilling tales just as soon as I'm vertical again. Thanks for your patience!

Let the snow begin.

This week marks the beginning of hunting season here in Maine. It's a most disconcerting time to live in the country unless you were born into it, which I wasn't.

You're right in the middle of sipping your morning cup of tea when BLAM, an extremely loud shotgun blast fills the air. Somewhere a deer is either dead, dying, or running, terrified, through the woods. And somewhere, a hunter feels the pulse of adrenaline rush through his veins.

When the hunter is successful, he loads the deer carcass into the back of his truck (for yes, he has a truck) and drives through town honking his horn excitedly. Hunter and carcass reach the market (which just also happens to be the game inspection station), where much fuss is made over the kill. Men come out to poke and scratch and discuss the event in great detail. Often beer is consumed.

Sundays are supposed to be no-hunt days, making it safe to stroll in the woods or, more likely, in your own yard. But the occasional gunshot still rings out, and I have my doubts about whether the hunter is "just practicing," as people like to say.

It's a pity, because November is one of the most beautiful times of year around here. As it is, I enjoy it from my window and from the highly visible perimeter of the house.