There are very few things this Christmas that follow our usual customs for the celebration of Jesus birth. We are in a different place with a different aim in view.

There are things outside that are brown and leafless, but not dead. There are brown crispy things that blew off the brown not-dead things. These crispy things are all over the neighborhood, making a mess.

I am so confused by the weather. At home, 57 degrees is miserable. Here it is a winter heat wave.

Jacket? Sweater? Coat? All of the foregoing? What to wear? Will ice crystals climb into little, jagged mountain ranges on the roof of the Camry? Will ice sheets clatter and break under the wipers?

What is wrong with the weather at this end of the state?

My name's not Grace - for a reason . . .

J's mother has a wooden walkway from the back entry of her house to the mother of all garden/storage sheds out back. This was because at the age of 88, she wanted to be sure she had a stable surface underfoot when she went out there.

A few days ago, J had transported some glass blocks out to the storage area in the shed and was, uh, storing them there. I went out to see the shed. It still fascinates me to have that monster available. One might house refugees in less space. I followed the walkway out, stepped up the ramp to the little landing at the shed's doorway and tripped off the edge of the platform and down onto two large but empty boxes he had thrown there temporarily.

The boxes broke my fall nicely and I had my usual involuntary reaction when viewing or taking part in a pratfall. I lay there giggling. I still grin when I think of the grace displayed.

The heating pad is taking care of the sore shoulder nicely, thank you . . .