Big Enchilada

The Whole Family is here tonight. That is, The Wife; The Daughter; The Twai Doggies; and I, The Dad. It is hard to believe that it is November, the north winds are blowing, it is not quite freezing and the rasberries have finally met their match over the weekend with a hard frost. "Alack, Ruin! They shout from the trees. Stupid bloody acorns!" [Spike Hawkins, circa late 1960s, London]. Sophie is playing the piano very beautifully. Sally is reorganizing the bookshelves; I've been building a new pantry or a china closet, and a clothes closete where once there was a furnace. We visited Uncle Bill this evening, walking the dogs. It is so hard to see him and communicate. He cannot speak; he cannot hear well. But I love him. He is an important person in the galaxy that I have known. I am guessing that he is 83, since dad is 82. A wonderful soup--salt pork, escarole, white beans, garlic, olive oil--is brewing on the stove. I can feel the wind gusting, ripping through the uninsulated walls. But the whole family is here. We are together. We are well; it is as good as it gets, but I won't say anything because drawing attention to something good is sure to derail it. There has never been such music at Stonepile! Now, if only... The worm, the worm!