We woke up to minus 30 degree temperatures in Ottawa this morning, and ever since local warming ended on about January 15, it’s been crackling cold here. (We were sorry to have missed two weeks of skating and skiiing, but Guadeloupe had its compensations. More on that warm adventure is still to come.)

And because of a small obsession of mine, our Tiny Perfect Backyard Rink™ was ready this morning, and my frisky critter spent nearly an hour wheeling and falling and apple-cheeking before I dragged him in for breakfast and we ran for the school bus. Sam doesn’t know much about hockey, but he loves it. He is six. Everything is amazing except WAITING. (So should it be for all of us.)

I had a great long walk in the chill, bright sunshine, finishing my second reading of The War of Art before returning it to the library. Great stuff, and more on that to come, as well. (It will further my backsliding “don’t buy it ’til you’ve read it” resolution.) After milk and cookies with Wendy, I came home to read about another fine prairie woman, Pamela Wallin. She was Canada’s Consul-General in New York for several years, and I was struck by her assessment of Canada/U.S. relations and why we get so prickly:

“We are obsessed with the Americans, and they are not obsessed with us.”

Ah. Right. There was more, but I found that pithy and complete.