Tired

I had to spend much of the night balancing my mom's error-riddled checkbook for her. It's getting to be a frequent task. I might have to start managing the whole thing myself. I'm spending about as much time correcting her mistakes as I would spend doing it right to begin with. I dislike bookkeeping very, very much. It's one of the reasons I avoid buying things on credit. The fewer figures I have to write down, the better. In fact, as time passes, I find it more and more enjoyable to buy less and less. My goal is to become the world's worst consumer. Ideally, I'd produce as much as I could for myself, barter for what else I needed when possible, buy nothing that wasn't easily available for cash, and have no dealings with banks at all. My wallet would be free of plastic. I guess that means that I actually want to be a hippie- though without the annoying hair and the crappy wardrobe. But I'd be perfectly willing to settle for being rich enough to be able to hire a bookkeeper to do all that unpleasant figuring for me. My lifestyle choices have nothing to do with politics or values. They are all about avoiding the arithmetic.

There are still some desiccated leaves for me to clean up. When I went out to fetch the morning paper, I stepped on some of them, causing a loud crackling to resound through the placid night. A good rain would soften and silence them, but then they would stick to my shoes and I would track them through the house. No rain is in sight, in any case. There is only vague haze and cold, still air of remarkable dryness. The lack of moisture drains the night of all scent save that of the pines, and the occasional whiff of wood smoke released by someone's early morning fire. I'll bet their room is cozy. Mine isn't. I'm going to put Sluggo to sleep now, so I can turn up the heat for a while before my own departure for the realm of Morpheus. Heh. I like saying "departure for the realm of Morpheus." It makes it sound as though I'll be doing something so much more interesting than just passing out on my commonplace bed for seven or eight hours.

Restful

Listening to intermittent rustling in the wild plum bush near my window, I keep thinking it might be the black cat who lives in the house at the corner. He/she was in my yard this afternoon, lying at the base of the mulberry tree for an hour or so. My cat was on the front porch, thirty feet away. They looked at each other once in a while, but there was no aggression. My cat used to chase the black kitty away whenever it came around, but it looks as though they've come to an understanding. That cat probably prefers this yard to its own, as it is quiet here, and there aren't any kids around. As to why Sugar has suddenly decided to be so tolerant, I have no clue. Maybe she's just getting mellow in her old age. She spends more and more of her time indoors, napping, especially now that the nights have grown cold.

It probably isn't the cat rustling the bush, though. I see the drapes billow slightly now and then, indicating a breeze. For the moment, it has only living leaves to rustle, the yard being freshly raked. The mulberry has a few remaining to be knocked down, and there are still a few withered brown leaves on the oaks, but I expect all those to be gone by the new year. The wan winter sun and the bright winter moon can now wash the lawn with light unimpeded by foliage. By day, the acorn woodpeckers now chuckle and drill, and by night the owls hoot. As yet, I haven't heard many flocks of waterfowl flying over. Altogether, December has had a drowsy quality this year. I'm waiting for one of those tremendous winter storms to show up. Eventually, one will. For now, I'm enjoying the serenity.