Little Cat Feet –

Fog.

We live in a high mountain valley.  Every January (Dad, don’t read this), a ridge of high pressure will settle over us in what they call an “inversion.”  I’m not sure what’s inverted, exactly.  But it’s like we’re a bowl, and whatever was in the bowl before the high pressure decided to squat is still here days later.  This usually only lasts a week or so.  But while it’s here, we get morning fog (especially down by the lake) and hoar frost.  Kinda fun if you’re not commuting.

The gate I climb every morning.  I hate to disturb it when it’s all introspective like this.

Sophie, waiting for me.

Not smog.  Actual fog, but tinged with gold by the sun, which has just broken free of the mountain.

You see how the hoar frost coats every hair.  I’ve seen whole manes white as – well, snow.

There are women who pay big bucks for streaks and highlights  like this.  White mascara?

Walkin’ on the moon?

He wouldn’t hold still.  But this is more frosting.

Warm barn.

And this is the little cat.

Warm barn cat.  She’s not ours.  But she loooooves us.  Her name is Findis (sp?).  Jesse, the German exchange student next door brought her family a gift, a children’s book called Pancakes for Findis.  Thus, we have Findis, who doubtless gets no pancakes for breakfast, but is fat and sassy all the same.

Frost on the knot.  I have to tie the gates shut or the smart-aleck equines will open them.

You can just see a touch of the frost on the trees above the roof.  But the sun is out, so they won’t last long.  Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for the upstairs Christmas lights.

Anthropologist  in a hurry.  Late for Anthro class, having lost both glasses and keys.  Notice the hustle.

Hoofin’ it.  Watch the ice there, miss spring colored shoes.

“Were you shooting that???”

And last, but not least, a treat.  A little slice of summer.  Summer of 1983.  Yes, Megan, this is you, actually.  And tell the truth, does the man on the right look like a Bishop to you?  This is the first of two.  In the second, Megan has actually burrowed into the yard under her mother, the Bishop has his hands clapped over Cam’s ears, Gin is taking cover, and Joel?  I can’t remember.  Maybe he just ran home.

Man, were we younger then?

Well – that’s ALL, folks!!