AUSTIN, Texas, November 14, 2005 — I woke up dreaming again. It was one of those "I'm late for class and I don't think I've been attending and I don't even know where the textbook is" dreams. People were talking about the class and the lessons. Ovid was one topic. Then I was also supposed to go to water aerobics. (In the dream and when I woke up, too.) I looked out this window and there was a foot of snow. (In the dream, of course.) But I was still going to water aerobics. In the dream with the snow and in reality, with the still balmy temperatures. I got up, shaking off a cramp in my right calf, and started my day with coffee.

I went to the water aerobics class. Dad was there. He had a lot to say when the conversation turned to times before refrigerators and electricity. I worked out after the class. Fifty-two minutes on the bike reading in newspapers about Satellite radio and the resurgence of fast food and such. Then I did some weights.

At home I ate some salad, drank V8, ate some cheese, made the bed, washed out my swimsuit, sorted through a few more things for the computer guy to carry off. He came and it was a relief to get rid of some of that junk. Of course, all the junk was once expensive, treasured computer stuff. I don't like to think how many dollar signs of stuff, now useless, more or less. I answered a few e-mails, posted the journal and ordered some stuff from Snapfish.

I spent a lot of the afternoon slowly working my way through preparing holiday cards. Putting mailing lablel on, writing a short note to people, stamping our return address on the envelopes, sorting out Austin ones we might put a Ballet Austin Nutcracker flyer in. This work is tedious and emotionally it alternates between pleasant memories, sadness and wondering what people are doing. I think of when I met the people and the pleasant times that brought them to our Christmas card list. (An arbitrary position based on a combination of whim, knowing the address without looking it up, in other words they once wrote to us or wrote it down, and the tendency of the recepient to respond in kind.) I think of the dead spouses, removed from the list, the divorces represented by two labels (or one in cases where a spouse drifted from the list). I think of how we've drifted away from really need people. That's the sad part. I wonder what these people are doing who retired to Hawaii and these who retired here but then became less friendly than when they lived in Hawaii. I wonder what life is like for people with whom my contact is more or less limited to this card exchange once a year. My information is circumscribed by the knowledge that the card didn't come back and that maybe they sent us one. Some will send a letter that wraps up their year, pictures of themselves and/or kids and pets. Others will just send a car with a snowman or angel or something, signed or engraved with their names. From some, no response. And yet the card is not returned. Some will actually respond to my notes that say "let's get together" or "it's been too long."

Somehow the sadness part of this task tips the scales this year.

But maybe it's my scratchy throat. I noticed a scratchy throat earlier in the day. I responded with Echinacea and Green Tea. And, later, with Dimetapp liquid.

We dress up a bit at six and go to Fonda San Miguel to celebrate a mayor's proclamation for their thirtieth anniversary. We have some snacks, talk to people, drink club soda. But I'm eager to get home to the Dimetapp.

FFP gives me a foot rub and the Dimetapp makes me drift off after we watch an old (1941) movie called Underground. I catch a little of a CSI, too. I read a little bit in the papers, too.

Tomorrow I'll feel better. I know it. Sleep!