Some folks plan ahead. We don't, or perhaps you could say that we plan not to plan ahead, but more likely that's just how I like to think of it. Rather than gather up a winter's supply of firewood before the fall temperatures drop, we wait for that first cool day, and only then head out into the woods.

This morning, I woke up and looked out the window at our creek valley world. Snow had started falling and was quickly accumulating. There was deep white everywhere I looked.

My heart stood still. The 100-year-old green turret clock stood shoulder high amid hundreds of other smaller clocks inside Taylor's Fine Timepieces. I had no reason to fall instantly in love, other than that the clock's strong beat sounded like music to my ears.

I thought it seemed curiously warm inside the cabin for an early winter day. Typically, when the fire dies down overnight, the cabin cools a bit, but not this morning. I checked the outside temperature on my phone. It was 62° and there was a 90% chance of rain. Yes, indeed. It was warm, and it was raining.

Kitty is probably the most beautiful dog we have known. Her fur is a sleek shiny black, so smooth that dirt and farm debris slide right off.

Some traditions stay the same, no matter how much time passes. They continue unchanged, flowing from generation to generation. I will always set a candle in the center of my pressed tin holiday wreath, just as my mother did as far back as I can remember, and her mother did long before my childhood memories.

It was definitely chilly outside. I did not want to put down my warm cup of coffee and step out the door to do the animal chores, but then I thought of my pasture friends waiting patiently. It was time to head out.

I got out of bed and looked out the window at the whiteness beyond. It had gathered overnight, piling up on the tree branches and covering the ground. No blades of green were anywhere to be seen.

I often imagine what our creek valley was like, hundreds, if not thousands of years before Greg and I made our home here. I particularly wonder this time of year – that Osage orange time – the time when the large green fruits drop thunderously to the ground.

The skies have been gray and the days shorter. This is that time of year when I light the oil lamps in the evening and look forward to colorful skies and longer days ahead; though in truth, the glow from the lamps sheds comfort all throughout our small home.

It was chilly when I stepped outside to do the morning chores. It was really more than chilly. It was freezing, only 20 degrees, but I was bundled warm in my winter chore clothes.

I love the dirt. I am at home in the dirt. I look down at my dirt-covered hands and I am proud of the way they reflect the joy of my work, their aging wrinkles and creases perfectly etched.

My father was many things, longshoreman, clock maker, superintendent of a rooming house, inventor and patent attorney. He moved easily from one livelihood to another, never totally letting go of what he had been before.

It is a good thing to have a helper. No matter what I do, she is right by my side to help however she can.

I stepped outside. The sun was just coming up over the hill on the far side of the creek. A heavy dew covered the grass in the upper yard. It sparkled in the first few rays of sunshine.