Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

I woke up this morning and looked out the window to streets white with snow. Now I feel in the mood for the holidays. Not enough to shop or decorate or anything, but a winter holiday mood nonetheless.

I went looking for my version of “Twas the Night Before Christmas” to post again this year, and came upon this chestnut I thought I would share with you.

I wonder what ever happened to debate? Or disagreement? Or even getting pissed at another person and coming out swinging — in writing that is.

Weblogging is a natural forum for debate: Person A says something that person B doesn’t like, Person B responds, Person A counter-responds, and the weblog readers add comments or sit on the sidelines, rooting for the champion of preference.

This type of communication isn’t bad. It isn’t evil. It isn’t even counterproductive, particularly if both participants care deeply about what they’re saying and it shows in the thrust and counter-thrust of exchange.

Yeah, I like to debate, and I like to argue, and occasionally, I even like to agree. Regardless, I find it stimulating to get into a written exchange with someone who will give as good as they get, who won’t back down, who will argue passionately about their beliefs or views or opinions. And even tell me to go to hell, as long as the “go to hell” is well written. If they’re a better writer or debater than I am, so much the better.

I search the weblogs seeking Rousseau and Descartes and instead I find Casper Milquetoast.

Just Shelley Weather


Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

Another posting from last year, wrote while looking out on palm trees and bare streets, walkers in shorts. This year, I repost these words while looking out at white flakes falling past my window, covering the ground. What is it about falling snow that makes one reflective, somehow wistful and nostalgic?

Snow falling gently over rolling hills dotted with trees both green and bare. The cerulean blue sky is captured, muted, and then reflected back in distorted waves from ice formed across a vast lake. Watched through the window, a red fox leaps from snow back to snow bank in the field in front of the house, its color matching the red of the barn next door.

Strand after strand of large Christmas lights are wound round and round the pine tree that stands alone in the field. At night, a switch is thrown and for miles you can see the tree, lights blazing, casting a multi-colored shadow on the snow.

In the morning a rare cardinal in the bush next to the driveway makes a nice counter point to the blue of the jays and the brown of the occasional hawk and commonly occurring finch.

Crystal white, azure blue, pine green, fox red, hawk brown. And then it gets colorful.

Winter in Vermont.