I sat in the waiting room, nervous, paging sightlessly through a magazine. At last, the Nurse came in and led me into the back recesses of the clinic.

We moved down a hallway of pink walls, scented with potpourri. Her voice came to me as I stared at the back of her head, "Watch your step here." A disinterested wave of her hand indicated the ramp below our feet.

She led me to a small change room, and instructed me to disrobe and don a cotton cover-up. After a few minutes, I emerged in pink cotton and she silently led me to her office.

The room was florescent-lit; the examination table dominated the atmosphere. I felt chilled.

Pictures surrounded the desk where she seated herself; there were weddings and children and picnics and various scenes of happy family life. She was in some of those pictures. Her face was smiling in the pictures.

She began to ask me questions in a calm, indifferent voice. She looked at the paper, or maybe it was at her pen, but never at me. The answers I gave her were written down on the form in front of her, the one with my name on the top.

When the required blanks on the form were filled, she asked me to sit on the examination table. She proceeded to probe my body, wiping her hands from time to time on my cotton cover-up.

The room was cold. The Nurse was silent, except for the soft swish of fabric when she wiped her hands and the splatter of water as she washed them when she was finished touching me.

At last, she stated, "I found nothing unusual during my examination. The next step is to take a x-ray. Please follow me."

Another waiting room, more chairs, more magazines.

After a short time the x-ray technician bounced into the room with a clipboard and a smile. She confirmed my name in a friendly voice. She led me to a bare, florescent-lit room with an x-ray machine and a chair and invited me to place my personal belongings on the chair.

She proceeded to expose my external body to cold glass and plastic and my internal workings to the world. She continued to smile, to make eye contact, to ask questions, and to listen to the answers to those questions. Each question was based on the answer to the last, you could tell she was actually listening.

I did not notice that the room was cold.

We have been enjoying fresh local apples lately. The smell of apples and cinnamon fills the kitchen as I bake cakes and puddings. Soon I will make mincemeat. I love mincemeat, but the commercial products are full of preservatives and so we avoid them. Making mincemeat is a big job; most of the work is in peeling, coring, and chopping the apples. However, the results are so good that it is well worth the effort.

Slowly, but surely, I have been reclaiming the area that Terra inhabited before she moved away. Teenagers seem addicted to surrounding themselves with treasures such as labels, photographs, magazine layouts, and goodness knows what else. I can only shake my head as I tackle the removal of what seems like millions of staples, screws, and tacks. The depth of my dislike for that sticky blue stuff used to attach items to walls is indescribable. It seems to grow like fungus. Soon though, I will have stripped, repaired, and reclaimed the walls. Then we will begin on the floor and ceiling.

This process of reclamation is a mixed blessing. At times, I find my eyes filling with tears and my heart aching. At other times, I feel excited and even cheerful as I wield my screwdriver and paint brush. Luckily, it is just me, and the four walls that witness.

In Canada, we will celebrate Thanksgiving this coming weekend. Although Attila will be working until dark, we have decided to roast a turkey with all the trimmings, and to bake an apple pie. Luna and Janus will join us for the first time as husband and wife. I look forward to having a very good time.

Maybe we can talk them into a few games of euchre.

Attila and I both enjoy playing cards. We share a common experience in that we were taught to play as children by adults who loved us. I spent many quiet summer evenings around the kitchen table with Granny and Grandpa, playing cards and being teased. Attila spent numerous hours pitting his growing skill against his mother.

It seems a lost art, the quiet game of cards. Television seems to have usurped those shared activities. I wonder if there is any way back. We shall try.

The power went off this morning. After about twenty minutes it reappeared. I haven't the slightest idea what happened to it. There was the sound of sirens in the distance.

Sitting in front of my disabled computer, I thought, "What if this is an emergency, how would I know?"

With no electricity I could not check a web site, turn on a radio or the television. There was no way to find out what was going on without venturing out and away from the house. I am distinctly uncomfortable about leaving my home during a possible emergency.

I went out and purchased a wind-up radio. The next time the electricity disappears, I will be able to listen for news.