First snow of 2025...

 ...and I can't believe I'm still alive.

Well, it's true, it is. It's the 10th of January, 2025, and I awoke and arose at 5:50 am, peeked out the window through a raised slat in the blinds, pulled on my XXL flannel nightshirt (I know, I know) and came into my study. Been searching ideas for an indoor herb garden right off past my computer monitor, to become a reality on the new plant stands off to my left and right underneath the south-facing windows whose sills are just a couple feet off the floor. This'll be fun.

I'm going to dabble with succulents. Tell me not to do it. I challenge you. Tell me.

When I stole that look out the window earlier, there was no snow. Now, at 7:15, the white stuff is falling and there's a perceivable dusting on cars beneath my window, and driveways and sidewalks out there are also nicely dusted. The streets are not, though a spread of snowfall is beginning to inch out onto the road. It's been pretty much bitterly cold this past couple weeks, cold enough to host a solid snowfall, and it's predicted that it will be falling all day. 

Fun.

Funny how every snow reminds one of every snow before. That effect is stronger in temperate climes, especially one such as mine, which shares up every one of the four seasons and their annual sublties each year. When I lived in Alaska, of course, this would be a really mild winter day since, in the Anchorage winter I recall snow cover almost all winter long. No, the snows before that I recall every new snow are those in Nashville, the Nashville of my black and white then color youth.

Luckily, there's nothing on my calendar but "water the plants" today. I'll do that, and I'll lightly fertilize. Look at me, growing into my middle name, "Gardner" in my late blooming years. I'm going to fill those plant stands with 

To address the elephant, it's just that I'm daily awed by the fact that I still arise each morning with a curiosity, filled with wonder about how the day's going to go. What will I make today? I am pushing 75 this year and if this old body didn't betray it constantly, I don't feel much older than my 20s. Go Figger. 

Here. I'll take a picture of what I'm "working" on in the studio. Then later, I'll come back and post its sister image, its time-enhanced completion, its worthy product. Here:

my two current paintings and their digital photo sources onscreen for reference

underpainting for "lemongirl's lost tongue"

Okay, enough of that. If I forget to follow up on my earlier promise, you will be able to view the completed painting at my site, scottmerrick.me. I'm pretty good about upkeep there.

So yeah, though I've been telling people for years that I don't feel a day over 90, that's less and less true week by week. I'm listening to Cormac McCarthy's All the Pretty Horses on Audible, and I recently heard a segment where John Grady and Rawlings, in prison, marveled at the fact that an elderly prisoner had stopped being tortured in their current home, a Mexican prison. They mused that perhaps there was just no satisfaction in torturing the old, since they already live in pain. It struck a chord, pal, it struck a chord. 

I refuse to elaborate on mine, the only exception being when talking to my doctor. If my honey asks why I'm wincing, I tend to answer briefly and stop wincing, as much as I can. It's not that I'm too proud to admit to having pain, I just think that adding words to the world which create negative vibes is a counter-spiritual thing to do. Anyway.

After several diversions away from my desk, I return to close this out. It's 10:16am in Nashville and the snow is falling just the same as it was at 7:15. I'd guestimate a couple inches as of now, and the forecast is for heavy snow another 10 hours. We'll see. Here's a little vid taken earlier...

:

 

out my studio window, around and back

Peace out. Stay housed, fed, and loved.