another bitterly cold morning, but now it's groundhog day, the groundhog says plenty more winter coming, and there's a light snow outside. that snow is a precursor to what is supposed to be a whopper storm tonight and tomorrow that will bring only five inches of snow (here) but frigid temperatures. ranchers and farmers are busy worrying about how and whether their animals will survive.

i myself am thinking that it is probably overblown although it will doubtless be cold and make me want to curl up in the back where it's warm. i'm running around getting wood under decks and awnings so that a supply of wood will last through the cold spell, but really we are sitting around feeling lucky that we don't have to get up and drive in it every minute. when it's this bitter cold, what snow there is gets turned to ice in the sun and the mountain roads, with their steep cliffs and harsh cutbacks, become pretty dangerous.

i'm floundering deep in the turn of the 20th century, around 1900, when my ancestors were running around trying to survive tough winters and noticing the kinds of things electricity could do for them. little did they know that i would be using it today to find out everything i can about what they were up to.

one would, as far as i can tell, take the train from toledo to various other northern cities, speaking at veterans' reunions and making newspapers report accounts of well-received recitations. this was her life. she was a performer. her children grew up somewhat used to the latchkey life.

the statistics grind goes on with two of them rolling over yesterday, tuesday and the first. but they don't say much, only that progress in becoming known as an author, actually having a readership, is pretty slow. i'm bogged down in this mauve-age book, and haven't been cranking out the sexy novels like i probably should be if i wanted it to sustain me. but i may back off and change that general pattern. one has to do what one has to do, after all.