Climes are different

I live in Central Massachusetts most of the time.  We're in some kind of magnetic field for snow, which means that when Boston gets an inch (and gets mightily peeved about it), we get four feet.  It's not a lake effect thing.  I believe the area's under an ancient weather curse.  Thus, in addition to the arctic temps and charcoal-colored skies, we're buried under great mounds of dirty snow.  The main wildlife is mice trying to move into the house where it's marginally warmer.

As you might expect, we don't get a lot of wading birds in my neck of the woods.  Or palm trees.  So these things are terrifically exciting to me.  It's February!  There are palm trees, some of them growing coconuts. A pelican stands so close I could touch him or her.  A heron loiters in my back yard!  Little lizards lurk under the doorstep and try to scurry into the kitchen when I'm not looking.  They seem not to realize that people live inside—people, those giant Godzilla things they normally run away from at the speed of light.

For all those fortunate people who normally spend their winters in a warm climate, this is no big deal, I daresay.  For me, it's like moving to another planet.  A kinder, gentler planet.

And then I get to go back to New England before the giant insects come out.

Algae & me

I had my first close encounter with Red Tide recently, and it isn't pretty.  On the Gulf, the culprit is Karenia brevis, a naturally-occurring organism seen as far back as the 15th C.  The algae is not particularly villainous until it has a population explosion.  That's recently happened in these parts,  and it's asphyxiating fish in vast quantities.  My sunset walk on the beach night before last?  Not so pretty.  Dead fish on the shore as far as the eye can see.  Which I did not photograph.  There's a limit to my need to document, though not to my imagination.  Something about this episode may find its way into my work, although I may not recognize it by the time it happens.

A Man & His Dog

Scene from the beach

Leonie's story

Readers have been asking lately about the third dressmaker, Leonie Noirot, and her story.  The short answer is, it's in progress.  This was one of those times—rare but not impossible—when my writerly abilities were not in synch with my publishing schedule.



Her story wanted more thinking than I'd anticipated.  Not surprising that, not having got enough cogitation, it didn't work out very well.  Now I'm rethinking, which means that we've had to postpone the release of Vixen in Velvet until 2014.

The good news is, I've moved to milder climes, and anticipate a great stirring of creative juices, under the influence of sun and warm temperatures.

Expect photos, here and on Facebook, and occasional reports on this new world I've entered.

Right now, it's a beautiful Sunday.  Puffy white clouds are floating across a blue, blue sky.  The fish are jumpin'—literally.  They're mullets, and numerous theories have been proposed to account for their leaping out of the water.  You're at liberty to research these online—or make up your own, if you are fictionally inclined.

O Possum Part 2

The possums were still there this morning. So we had to call the guy in the yellow truck.

He went into the garage and closed the door to prevent desperate escapes. He was in there for a while. Toward the end, I heard thumps and thuds.

Then the garage door opened. Some of the little ones, it turned out, gave him a run for his money, and some of that non-car stuff in the garage toppled.

But we think he got them all.
Bye, o possums. You'll be happier in the woods. Really.

O possum

Here's what I found in my garage this morning. When I walked in, Mum opossum didn't act dead but she did go very still, watching me. I watched her, too. Mommies of all species can become Terminators when they think their kids are threatened. The kids--who apparently have not learned the Play Dead game--went on wandering through the garage, which, yes, like so many others, contains many non-car objects. I've no idea why she thinks a pickax is a comfy place on which to build a nest.