2012

So, a few things have changed:

Failing to go into detail regarding my current progress with my doctoral dissertation, my familial situation and my current hemisphere of habitation, let it suffice to say that the concluding quarter of the Year of our Lord 2011 was a tumultuous one.
Let it also go unquestioned that anyone gives even one-sixteenth of an airbourn rump of rodentia what I'm getting up to these days.
So, what to talk about?

Well, let me set forth, unknown readers, a hypothetical small town in which one Gentlewoman may have just arrived. It's going to be her home, though the town is, as of yet, unaware of this change in designation. So far, it had only been a weekend destination.
It's a pleasant small town, though the brick-and-mortar downtown was recently deforested, the empty little squares of earth sectioned off amidst the brick and concrete still visible to passing feet. Doing better than many such nearly-identical gatherings of homes and houses, this small town still has a Sears appliance store downtown, keeping the windowfront from going vacant, chasing the phantom of soap white abandonment a little further down the block. There's also an Ace Hardware that sells everything Sears doesn't, and that's terribly handy. A smattering of antique shops may or may not be going out of business, a Zenith television shop clings to life by its fingernails, the chain Hallmark shop is most definitely shut, a soy candle and looseleaf tea joint appears to be inexplicably thriving, and a bicycle shop is yet to be explored. The topography of the town is gently rolling, as a placid but deep sea left in the wake of retreating giants of ice, secretly hoping in its cold blue-green heart that it's blanket of ice might one day return and lay silence and stillness across its smooth belly for another ten thousand years. The Gentlewoman may give some thought to learning to ride a bicycle proficiently in this landscape devoid of major hill and obstacle in the coming, more temperate months, but she might not, who knows.
An early morning in the biting wind freezes her hair, still wet from a scalding shower and festooned with snowflakes packed like polystyrene in the clearing house of stratus clouds. It's bitterly cold and gusty as a workman's complaint, but the slant of neon coming from a coffee shop on the corner holds a promise of warmth and caffeine-- soldier on. It is indeed warm and there are tables; she spots one adjacent to an outlet and sets her oversized handbag down to claim her perch. It's a good one, a corner table with views out both windows and her back to the exterior wall pillar. She can see the counter, the door, and views down both streets. A good call. The chai latte, at first so fully of frothy milk promise, was not. The taste was hard to identify, perhaps too sweet? Almost citrus, but not, somehow. Unfortunate, regardless. The hot cocoa ordered later was far more pleasant, once one averted singeing off one's taste buds.
The other clientele are a peculiar blend of stall town stock and trade: older men, not yet truly ancient, sitting and reading print-offs of unknown provenance which support their bound and tied belief that the Lutherans will be the death of this country and the current Administration is somehow mixed up in Sharia Law. Somehow. They were a little foggy on the details. They were joined in adverse but jovial discussion by the longer-haired youthful man with impressive sideburns and a very young son, who looked a little greener with all his mixed textiles. A smattering of businessmen, no ties or wool coats (those aren't the type of businessmen who make it around here) but sporting button-downs and chinos and drinking strong coffee, talking important talk. Farm wives segregate from the in-town ladies, who have clearly patronized the local beauty shop-come-salon-sometimes-called-spa for a trim and some dye and perhaps just a little plucking. These women are artists, designers, painters, maybe a florist? They're quite nice once introduced, but our Gentlewoman is still making her way and has not yet made way of introductions, so they'll just have to go about their strategically just-into-earshot conversations in peace. The lunch crown comes and goes, all well meaning and meaning to get out of the cold.
So, the town has a coffee shop and a Gentlewoman. The little carnations in the clear glass bud vases are dying, and one might offer her expertise to brighten the tables, but when queried the only slightly balding fellow behind the counters smiles and says that an old man takes care of them once a week, doesn't know where he gets the flowers but it does a lot to brighten the place up. It certainly does.