And the wait goes on

That awful noise you hear is the sound of multiple leaf-blowers. Whoever invented leaf blowers should be fined every time one is used. It's the most obnoxious destroyer of peace ever created. 

While the colors of fall are being noisily blown into piles, my little Japanese maple is hanging tenaciously to its fading red leaves; but it's only a matter of days until it rejects its autumn aspect and buries its naked self deep into the pot, to await spring's return.

I'm already missing the colorful leaves and the autumn sunshine, but I've decided I can't complain about winter this year because this morning I was chatting with a young man in Manitoba (helping with a stalled Apple upgrade), and he told me it was minus one last night.

"But that's not really cold," he said. "It regularly gets down to minus 30 or 40 in winter." I expect he was speaking Celsius, but despite his reassurance minus 30 or 40 is "really cold" and I'm glad I'm not in Manitoba.

With winter comes a heightening Covid risk so I've been trying to think of ways to occupy myself while staying home. Until now I had politics and the election to entertain me, but while Trump golfs and spreads lies about voter fraud, Biden appears to be working steadily on. And while steady is a good thing for the country it's not terribly entertaining.

So, more reading (a neighbor just dropped off an Allende novel), more crossword puzzles and Sudoku, a little evening TV, and ordering everything in. I hadn't tried grocery delivery until today but my Costco shopper just dropped a load of food in the kitchen, so I won't have to worry about starving. I can order yarn online, and Christmas gifts, and just about anything else one could want, but there's nothing fun about it. I'd much rather be browsing among hundreds of colorful skeins than wondering if my laptop is accurately reflecting the color I'm buying.

Yes, it's a dreary forecast but there's hope ahead. Two vaccines are showing great potential—an astonishingly quick development—and no matter what the president says, his term expires at noon on January 20. What he does then will depend on the courts and his creditors and I don't have to think or care about that.

Instead, I'm making plans to drink a bottle of French champagne on December 31st, even if I have to order it in and drink it by myself. I'll joyfully raise my glass as 2020 finally sinks into the swampy, infested, feces-filled rat hole it arose from, and where with any luck it will be tortured by the roar of nonstop leaf blowers to beyond the end of time. I can hardly wait.