It is gloriously bright cold as I type this, the type of cold that leaks in through windows and doors, the type of cold that blows through the prairie and resides here in New England as a fairly odd import, a front fish out of water.
It is the type of cold that smacks wind on your cheeks, and makes you stand up and pay attention.
My first post, the purpose of it, is to welcome you in from that whipped cold after your journey through it, to greet you at my door with something deliciously hot and sweet as you take off your coat and follow me into that great cavern of a great room, lined with real wood, centered by a circular fire encased in brick as we sink each in a chair larger than either of us, and read. Sometimes we'll read poetry, or something small and unreal. Sometimes we'll read about reading, or discuss art or history.
Funny, relaxed or profound, we'll continue the conversation, feet propped up on ottomans, drinks resting on the end table between, between plates of cheese, and crackers, and cured meat, as we stare at the fire and let thoughts drift until recaptured, ending and starting again.