Dear Santa . . . .

Normally sunny here in Alabama, today’s sky has been reminiscent of an Ohio’s wintry day, i.e., drab gray. No cerulean blue in sight. While the weather outside was frightful, my interior 68 degrees wasn’t quite delightful, but it was doable . . . as long as I overlooked the deep freeze claiming my feet as I sat at my computer.

Speaking of frozen feet reminds me that I recently learned the delights of a hot water bottle bedside. We’d vacationed in western Virginia where, nestled in a valley, the chilly rental house provided lots of comforters and, yes, a hot water bottle complete with lambskin casing. Despite growing up in a house where ill-fitting bedroom windows allowed small snowdrifts to form on the wooden floor, I’d never tried using one.

How did I ever do without?

In the winter months, I snuggle in, pull the covers over my head, and hope that my cold feet warm up enough to let me drift off. But they often refuse to cooperate, even when I pamper them with socks or wrap them in covers. My husband, sometimes kind enough to let me put my feet on his legs, can only take so much abuse.

Yes, I’ve finally seen the light in the shape of a hot water bottle. Glowing from the warmth within, it has the potential to change my life. Happy feet, longer sleep, better sleep. Deeper dreams, creative juices, fabulous stories. Books on shelves.

You can surely understand the connection between a nice hot water bottle and certain fame and fortune.

Let’s just hope Santa sees it that way.