I write to you with an abundance of gratitude on this stormy morning. Winds gusting up to 50 miles per hour shake the trees and howl like so many Ghosts of Christmases Past. A driving rain pelts down on the metal roof. It is a strangely comforting drumbeat. The scent of roasting apples, butternut squash, and sweet onions drift through our cozy hobbit hole.
We ventured into North Conway to Hannaford first thing, and the wind-whipped rain had already washed away last night's snow. We returned to a driveway of two inches of slushy water, and Samwise and Emily relished a vigorous toweling off.
It is an appropriate day to be alive, to count blessings, and to do my sums. For no one appreciates the good without the storms in life. And goodness knows, like many of you, I have had my share.
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