I woke up to the sound of my cell phone ringing, a small paw brushing at my hair, and a cold black nose insinuating its way under the quilt. It was Sunday morning and I dug deeper under the covers. The black nose followed and in a few seconds the entire black dog was under with me, all get-up-growls and nudges. I pretended to be asleep but it was too late - the small brown dog slid under and wound her way around my neck and the bed was getting heavier with the weight of multiple cats perching on my hip, my shoulder, and where my feet wanted to be. It was nine against one and I know when I'm beaten.
The morning was slightly overcast, cold but clear - perfect for the family portrait I was to take later in the day. The color of winter in the south is hazy and tinted with just a suggestion of rose. The light sifted through the trees, more dusky than mid-morning but much softer than dawn, like seeing the whole world through a warming filter. It would be a beautiful winter day.
I have never missed snow, not even at Christmas. Picture post cards of Colorado or Vermont don't move me and I have a suspicion that all winter landscapes are made in Hollywood. Alaskan cruises
are for the deranged of mind and spirit, chalets should be forbidden to all but the Swiss who have to live in them, and sleigh rides should be outlawed even for the horses. It's a harsh attitude, I know,
born of too many New England winters, too much time being cold, too much snow glare. My relatives would, it seems, be of sturdier stuff.
So I pull on jeans and a sweatshirt, pack my cameras, and head out to do a family portrait, hoping against hope that even on this perfect day, it will be inside and knowing it will not. The outside light is too good not to use. I will do my best and keep my fingers crossed for one good shot because one will be enough.
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