From the time we were children together, just into our teens, books were always an important part of our lives. We'd go together to municipal library branches in walking distance. We would discuss book contents. We would read many of the same books. Eventually, still 'children', at the age of 18 when we married, we joined a book-of-the-month club where monthly we'd be sent a handful of books through the mail, return those of no interest and pay a nominal $1 each for those kept. There were few returned, and we barely managed to pay for the books. At that time $2,500 represented a year's salary.

Since the coronavirus erupted and interrupted all phases of human existence we haven't returned to our local public library. But over the years in 67 years of marriage we acquired books and have a sizeable collection of those we couldn't bear to part with. A few years ago Irving collected hundreds and hundreds of paperbacks off our library shelves, boxed them, and delivered them to our local Salvation Army second-hand store. That thinned the number of books, but ample numbers remained.

Many of which neither of us has yet read, but fully intend to. Bit by bit we get around to reading, and in some instances, re-reading books of all kinds from biographies, histories, novels, travel books, autobiographies, adventure stories. Among the publications we amassed over the years is a collection of hard-covered Harper's magazines, compiled year-by-year. Occasionally, Irving likes to go through them. The print size is too much of a struggle for me.

There are many fascinating stories, reports, autobiographical accounts in these collections dating from the mid-1800s onward. Stories that were current to their day, but now regarded as 'ancient' history.  Accounts of what was common in society of the time that may clang in our ears now, or arouse amazement because though well over a century has passed, some things appear current and others incredibly prescient. 

There is little that is more comfortably satisfying than thumbing through literature in front of a warming fireplace on cold winter days. Fascinating articles that capture the imagination and fire thought processes then become topics of lively conversations. But we do eventually break ourselves away from the warmth of the fireplace and the fascination of the books to take to the out-of-doors daily with our two little dogs.

It's been heavily overcast all day today, yet another dark, damp winter day. Leaving the house at three to set out for our hike through the forest trails, usually means we'll be back home by five. Around half-past three, we're aware that dusk is on the cusp of entering the landscape, and a half hour later a veil of grey is full established. Brightened considerably by the snow-packed forest floor.

The landscape is actually like a winter sandwich; above is the top layer of silvery white, below the bottom layer, and all that lives moves about between. On the upper reaches of the ravined forest we can often see in the distance the orange glow of the sun beyond the cloud cover, settling on the horizon. It's a difficult glow to capture with a camera, though the camera of our eyes experience no difficulty.