packing

The red-tailed hawk that lives in the fir trees on Horseshoe Canyon ridge is circling in the sky over the deck and shrieking which is making the chickens skittish. The dogs who usually patrol the property and keep alles in ordnung, have already been dropped at the Doggie Ranch near Castaic and I watched their mournful faces staring at me as I drove away. It's a very strange and quiet house without them, even though they sleep most of the day.

I've heard from my brother that it's minus 10 at Rottal and even the locals are complaining about the weather. I stopped at Sport Chalet in Stevenson Ranch and bought extra thermals for everyone and I stopped at Starbucks to get mini packets of honey for the plane journey. I plan to slice up the ginger and lemon in its own baggy. We're complaining about 40 degrees here in Los Angeles so 10 below is hard to fathom. I'm happy that the children may be able to toboggan and make snowmen and all the things that their California upbringing deprives them, however.

I am packing fleeces and sweaters and layers and socks into my bag, and hanging up pretty black dresses and little silk shirts and velvet jackets and wondering how people actually manage to put everything they need into one bag. Ugh, even talking about it makes me neurotic.