But no. Seems I’m hooked. Just a bit.

It’s like fishing, when I tell myself I’ll leave a fishing spot after just one more cast, a cast that never comes.  Every time I hook the Honda up to the battery tender, I lie to myself saying, “Self, time to put the bike away for the winter.” A day or two later I’m waiting for the engine to warm up for another ride.

It’s been cold in the a.m., no more than 40°F. Often less. Then almost as cold during the ride home from work in the afternoon.

It’s not a bad thing, because when I’m riding, I seem to see so much more; smell so much more; and actually enjoy the commute so much more.

But soon, Mother Nature may win. There’s only so many layers I can add and still ride without looking like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

That’s when we finished what begun Friday afternoon with the moving around that gave us a seemingly new house.

“Moved to a new house?” you ask.

No, the creation of what feels like a new house through a refreshment of the feng shui (or lack thereof) in the so-called living room and den. Over the years the arrangement of the furniture in these two rooms had been predicated on practicality — utilitarian in the father-in-law’s view — necessitated by the acceptance of hand-me-down sofas and the sundry accessories.

But it was The Wife’s our willingness to stimulate the economy and the appearance of a nice sectional sofa at Costco that launched this change to a more welcoming arrangement of furniture (as well as the acceptance that we’d have the same sectional as the billion other folks who would no doubt also be lured by the great price). Combined with the removal of all-too-long unscrutinized debris and the steam cleaning of carpets, this rearrangement yielded not only a more elegant layout, but room enough to expand the dining space to accommodate 20-plus holiday guests. (The Wife recongnized this surprising benefit a bit too fast for my taste.)

It looks good. I know. I got to spend all of 40 minutes lounging on the new sofa before it was time to head to bed.

Washing one’s car can extend beyond the simple cleaning of your conveyance. It forces me outside, as a rule on those days when the sky is blue and the sun is shining. Whilst I am known to be perhaps a bit too fastidious in the washing of a chunk of metal that barrels down the road, I find it to be somewhat of a relaxing task that brings little burden to the brain. A sort of meditation. In years gone by – even in my lifetime – it was be part of a neighborhood’s social goings-on. I’m sure it still does in a few places.

Do you remember those sunny Saturdays when almost every father on the block was out in his driveway polishing his Corvair or Beetle or Impala? Greetings were exchanged. Cars were shared and inspected. In between vacuuming the interior and hosing down the exterior, kids would get a quick squirt from the hose. The good old day, huh?