Soft Snowfall

We are having the kind of picture perfect snowfall that songs are made of. Big flakes, drifting down, wafted by a gentle wind. The sun is just breaking through, from time to time. As they land, the flakes are making fluffy piles. 

Thicker now, and the sky is a bit more covered, but still a fine picture.

midrange of my Pentax Zoom lens.

 Writing 'Zoom' makes me think of my book club meeting this morning, that took place on the Zoom app. None of us are very good with it, and so extraneous noises intruded, from time to time, including someone's fire alarm getting tested. We do not put up our hands to speak and we tend to break in on one another, at least I do, as I get excited about some idea flitting through my brain. The topic this morning was to bring in a favourite book or book much loved to present to the group. I could not make up my mind and ended up with a pile of books beside my iPad. I did not do well, I think, but some of the members had really done their homework and we had some excellent suggestions. Next month we are presenting on 'Romance' and that ought to be just plain hilarious. All suggestions for a good bodice-ripper gratefully received.

Just now the sun was a glowing disc behind a veil of thin cloud, and the big fat flakes are still drifting down. Maybe, just maybe, it will get deep enough that my poor frustrated husband can play with his shine red new snowblower. He has had it out, mind you, but it has not had a real test. 

Here's a closeup of big fat flakes, as they landed on the deck railing. 

And here are two shots of the peep of sun we got around mid afternoon as I stripped the ornaments off our Christmas tree. Twelve days is not enough to clean up after the Festive Fandango. However, as of this morning, the tree is gone and all I have left to do is clear my festive birdies away and stow all the bags and boxes of Christmas stuff. 

Stuff! Many of us are drowning in it. His friends are at present clearing my brother-in-law's possessions (and his parents' possessions) out of his house and property. The detritus of a life, like the wrack of a storm washed up on the beach. We have all identified a few precious things, and they are mostly picked out. There are probably a lot of things that can be reused, I hope. But the clearing process can be difficult and emotional. I recall clearing after my mother died and coming across a battered hat that she wore to water the lawn and flowers. It was destined for the rag bag, but putting it there was really, really hard for me. Some day my daughters will be for it and I feel as if I should apologise ahead of time for the mess and the pain. 

Guilt! But not quite enough to clear up now myself. For some reason, buried in my brain somewhere, I need to have my grandmother's dishes set and folders with my daughter's school reports. Sorry, girls.