I'm downstairs at 7:45 to make tea and the sun is just ringing in over the horizon.

With the kettle on the fire I schlepped over to the front door to release the dogs of snore. They scampered out into 34 degree post-frosted air and with that instant slap in the face, for a moment, I thought I might not need the black tea.

The rain from the previous night has scoured the world clean as a fire engine and I can see all the way to Enumscratch from my dining room window.
 
When the teapot whistles, I pour my cup of Constant Comment and turn back to the view to see the first rays of Sol as he slices though the still low clouds behind the peaks of the distant Cascadian range.

They are so contrasted by the sharp, yellow light, it illuminates the trees around my house so that they are nearly artificial. It's beautiful.
 
A hundred years ago, I lived in a little log cabin on a busy street. Quite a contrast, that.

500 square feet of 1950's peeler logs strapped together by my landlord, an earnest old man with good carpentry skills.

Though it was very small, the lone, tiny electric wall heater was so inefficient that the water in the toilet would freeze in the winter.

It wasn't a bad memory or hard time in my life, I was in my twenties and everything was vital and surrounded by good humor.

When I met the woman who would become my wife, I courted her by bringing flowers that I’d picked from the neighbor’s garden and by taking her to dinner every night for a week straight.

We always came back to her condo where I dropped her off, with me not getting so much as a peck on the cheek until the fourth date.

I knew I had to keep on the steam. But ultimately those lavish dinners at Denny’s and the last minute floral arrangements worked their magic, because after a years worth, I proposed on the aft deck of the Princess Marguerite and she gave me a real kiss, on the lips.

Soon after this, she somewhat reluctantly agreed to move in with me, concubine-style, for an additional year before we were wed.

She tolerated the small space and with our first winter-time survived, we had fun fixing the place up, both of us learning how to live with another person in an enclosed space.

One morning she went into the kitchen, just as I did here this morning, to make coffee and I heard a scream. She ran back into the bedroom and cried, "There are BEES in the cupboard!"
 
I assured her that that was unlikely and when she continued to stand at the foot of the bed with her arms crossed, I knew I had to investigate.

I tromped in and swung the door of an upper cabinet open, and, nothing. I turned to tell her it was just her imagination when a bird-like object buzzed past my head.

'Wwzzzzzzzzzzzzzz', it sounded like a tiny motorcycle and when I caught a good glimpse of it, I saw that it was indeed a bee.

A huge bumblebee, big black fuzzy body with a yellow scarf, he was easily the size of a quarter, give or take a penny. ( That must be why the Wheaties were always half gone.) I ran out of kitchen to find my girl in the bathroom brushing her hair. "I was right wasn't I ?" she said, one eyebrow tilted.
 
We immediately made plans to move, and to this day, I wonder if she planted a mechanical animal in the cabinets to speed our wedding plans. Either way, in retrospect, I guess I owe that little fellow a spoon of honey.
 
Now that I'm ensconced in this house that I built with my own, earnest hands, there are no bees in the pantry, but there's a kettle on the boil and the little lady is still slumbering and the dogs want back in and I'm in my fifties and everything is still vital and surrounded by good humor, and love.