What to do? It’s an early January day, one of those odd ones that’s wedged between cold fronts. On Long Island, that means it sort of feels like March, and there is an urge to bundle up and start spring cleaning — while the inner voice says, “Don’t be too quick. This is just a winter lull, and there will be icy temperatures at any moment.”
As if to serve as a reminder, there are the remnants of last night’s flurries (above) and autumn leaves encased in ice on top of the pool cover (below).
Blog awards come in all shapes and sizes — but few can bring a smile to my face like the Liebster Award. It’s a funny — and a fun — word to say. Go ahead, give it a try. “Ah, my little Liebster, how are you today?”
See what I mean? You have to smile when you say it.
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
4,329 films were submitted to the 2012 Cannes Film Festival. This blog had 39,000 views in 2012. If each view were a film, this blog would power 9 Film Festivals
Joe, also known as “Joey Coconuts,” and I are spending Christmas week in South Florida. When I tell that to people, their reactions usually fall into one of two categories. First, there are those who would like to jump into my luggage. Sure! Then, there are those who wonder if a South Florida Christmas can even feel like Christmas. It does, only it’s warmer.
The only moment when both groups are in agreement is when they stare, speechless, after I explain that Joe and I are going to Florida to do yard work. Yes, that’s the perfect vacation — and since there isn’t too much time to write, I thought I would share some photos.
This is not the post I planned for today. I originally wanted to write something funny about one of my favorite holiday films, Christmas In Connecticut, or poke fun at myself for crying over Christmas carols, like Darlene Love’s “Christmas (Baby, Please Come Home).”
Today, though, I have a need to write a long post (my apologies) about a very different Christmas in Connecticut, a very different Christmas in America — and the idea that I, and I think most of us, cannot stop crying — with or without Christmas carols. For me, the overwhelming sadness is just below the skin. It doesn’t take much — the news, a moment of silence, an overheard conversation — to unleash a flood of tears.
Miracle. It’s one of those words that’s often tossed about, especially at this time of year. Just Google the phrase “Christmas miracle” and see what comes up — miracles, it seems, are no longer just on 34th Street. They are, in fact, everywhere — and on this particular day, they make up a large part of my life.
Today, is my 15th birthday. Geez, it was only a few days ago I was 12 — or, rather, being an uncle and having to purchase a Christmas gift for my 12-year-old niece.
Never mind, though — today I am celebrating the miracle of being 15.
December 12, 1997, was like many of those Long Island winter days — not sure if it wanted to be cold enough to snow or warm enough to rain. The result was a gray, damp, slushy mix that left a coating of black ice on the pavement — and this was my commute home.
It’s official. I’m old.
Although 50 is around the corner; although I wince each time I hear ‘80s music on an oldies-but-goodies radio station; and although the sunlight reflecting off of the grays and silvers in my hair causes a halo effect — I never considered myself old.
Until I went to the mall to shop for some Christmas gifts for my 12-year-old niece.
Lately, this is how I envision my brain: shards of broken terracotta strewn across the potting bench. Where I once had a clear vision and firm ideas, I now feel a bit scattered and disorganized. My struggle is to figure out why — why I can’t seem to focus; can’t seem to be motivated; can’t seem to get back to my two posts a week schedule.
My first thought is that I have stumbled into a very bad case of bloggers’ block. Perhaps I’ve overextended myself — time needed for work and time dedicated to writing seem to be at odds with each other. Perhaps the freshest ideas have all been used in the first year of this blog — after all, once you write a piece on the joys of raking, how many more autumns can you possibly write the same thing?
Then, just as I try to make sense of all these thoughts and worries, stacking them just so — one piece falls from the pile and I soon find myself once again in the throes of worry.
Nitty Gritty Dirt Man 