My Grandmother, Dora Gilbert, used to freeze her garbage. This was in the days before garbage disposals, so there was a lot to freeze. But she didn’t let that intimidate her. For Dora, freezing garbage was more than just a way to keep it from stinking. It was an art form. I can see my grandmother now, standing in her immaculate kitchen, a little Franco-American woman with permed gray hair, full make-up, a house dress, nylon stockings, sensible shoes, and a bib apron, carefully wrapping her garbage in little foil packets.

Last Thursday, I’m standing at my station at the A&P, register three, when who do I see in the produce section but James Brown. Not James Brown, the Godfather of Soul, the hardest working man in show business. No, I’m talking about James Brown, CPA, father of three and the hardest working accountant in Mahoosuc Mills. Well, since his father retired, he’s the only accountant in Mahoosuc Mills! He may be sharp with numbers, but there he was, hovering over the lettuce, looking perplexed.

Have you been watching the Winter Olympics? Charlie and me have. Un-real! I find those athlete’s dedication and determination downright inspiring. I love it all: seeing someone do their best, or maybe fall, get up and keep going, the tear-jerky human interest stories, the medal ceremony. I root for the USA, of course, but also for Canada. After all, my grandparents could have just as easily stayed there as moved to Maine.

I just love Valentine’s Day! For starter’s, it’s a candy holiday. Second, I happen to look good in red. So it’s a win/win. Plus, come February, we need a little reminder to love each other, because we’re smack dab in the middle of winter, and in the case of my husband Charlie and me, our double-wide is feeling a little close.

Last Tuesday, Archie Johnson come into the A&P, per usual. He’s what we affectionately refer to in Mahoosuc Mills as a “mangy old fart.” Lives in a rundown trailer on the edge of town: tires piled in the yard, blue tarps, broken cars on cinder blocks, you name it. I know, sounds like a cliché. But cliché’s come from somewhere. Archie is living proof.

Just a reminder: we are fast approaching the cutoff for all Christmas decorations. Do it now, and avoid the shame of being one of those houses where the crocuses have to nudge aside a deflated, inflatable Santa. Oh, I can get a real bee in my bonnet about this!

Our little dog Scamp and I went back to school this week. I think I told you we took a class right after Charlie and me got him. I mean, he arrived from Poodle Rescue on a Friday, and we started on Monday. Scamp and me hadn’t really bonded yet. I’d call his name, and he’d turn toward me then cock his head, as if to say, “Who the heck are you?”

I miss the smell of wet wool. In a world before polar fleece, that’s what winters smelled like in Maine. Wet wool, wood smoke, and beans slow cooking all day Saturday. Beans cooking still smell like love to me.

Every day, my husband Charlie and me trade off dog walking duties. Usually Charlie takes our puppy Scamp out in the mornings and I do the afternoons. But last Saturday afternoon, we were both hanging around the house, and I thought, 'Wouldn’t it be nice to take a little walk around the block together?' And let me tell you, it was enlightening!

Well, my Christmas decorations are all put away. The only thing I keep out for the winter are a pair of children’s snowshoes, though I do take the little red bows off. I like having them around. They were my mother’s when she was a kid, handmade by her uncle, Octave Pease. The webbing is made from the hide of a deer he shot himself.