Ah, how I remember those crummy days when you could just hunker down and let the weather roll over the house. The wind whistling the snow around the corners, the rattle of sleet against the windows, the smell of the wood fire in the stove, and warm slippers on my feet. Then, a quick run to the woodshed for more wood and the sharp knife of the wind, a little snow on the neck, the fingers cold in the gloves, and the sold sound of the wood in the basket. Then back inside where the warm moist air fogs the glasses and the familiar sounds and smells envelope you in some intangible blanket of security.

We have days like that in Guam only without the cold. We call them typhoons.