Today is the first day since I-don't-remember-when that I haven't snapped at least one photograph. I almost took one of Warren's light display, which has grown steadily, bulb by bulb, since Thanksgiving. And I wanted to take one this morning of Morris, the old man who lives in the green A-frame around the corner, whom I met when he called out to me from his porch to kindly bring him his newspaper across the ice from the sidewalk as I passed on my way to work, who told me in a taut british accent a quick story about being in the 8th Army in North Africa in 1942 and cooking his lunch on the sun-scorched armor of a churchill tank. And of the girl in town who waited at the crosswalk with an arm-load of festive packages as a funeral caravan rolled slowly past.