contented

I already love today.

I woke to the sound of wind chimes, which meant we'd have a blustery morning. There's none better. As I do automatically, every morning, I went in the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, and just as I did so, the wind hit the front porch and squeezed through the cracks in my front door. I have no idea why I love that spooky, haunted-house sound, but I do. It makes me shiver, in the best sort of way. My brother-in-law, who built our house for us three years ago, heard that noise one day while visiting and jumped to his feet. "I can fix that for you," he offered.

"Don't you dare," was my response.

As if starting my day with bluster and howl wasn't delightful enough, I then went and poured just the exact right amount of hazelnut creamer in my coffee cup. I never measure, and I always pour the creamer in first, before the coffee, because that way I don't have to dirty a spoon. It's a hit-or-miss operation, generally, but today I hit it dead-on. You should try a sip.

This day will only get better. Sometime this afternoon, I'm going to pack up my laptop and head to the livestock auction. I'm writing the second to the last chapter of my book today, and it happens to center on a conversation I overheard at the auction a few years ago. So I need to put myself back in that place and soak in all the noises and odors. I can almost conjure that earthy smell right now, but I don't want to deprive myself of the actual pleasure, so I'm going.

Going to the auction, to me, is like taking a trip to my childhood. I went frequently with my grandfather back then, and I believe some of these cattle men--the big wigs, the ones who sit in the first interior ring with their feet up on the arena railings and their names burned into wood plaques behind their chairs--are the same cronies my grandfather swapped howdies with back then.

I don't have a first-ring seat, of course. I'll perch up near the top, where I can watch the kids begging for a cone from the auction cafe, watch the livestock-handlers try to keep their feet out of the path of stomping, irritated cows, watch the anxiety grow as people outbid each other for the healthiest goats.

I could almost make myself believe I was ten again, and sitting with my grandpa, except these overall-clad farmers have a cell phone in their front pocket and a double-tall latte in their hands. Other than that, it's 1971.

I always think of those lattes when I'm heading out to the auction, and it triggers a hankering in me. No need to fight a thing like that, so I'll stop at the Starbucks on my way and pick up a cup.

Who could ask for more? Bluster, howl, memory lane, and two cups of perfect coffee. I am one contented woman.