After the promises have been kept, and the miles have been traveled, and the miles have been traveled, and the little horse has been brushed and put to bed in the barn, do you ever wonder what becomes of the speaker in Frost’s poem the next morning?

I have. I do.

Maybe he gets up a little later than usual, and looks out at the snow, and wanders into the kitchen – scratching himself and yawning – and his wife makes him pancakes.

Hmm, definitely a promising ponderable.

Anyway, I can’t think of any promises I kept well or faithfully over the Christmas days. We single uncle types need to fight the feeling of being a little more old and in the way, from year to year. So it goes. But we’re home from our yuletide expedition to the deep woods, and I’m back at the desk, back to the blog.

So how should I presume?

Oh that Eliot, he always cracks me up.

But seriously, any reader suggestions on a good topic from the many possibilities of reading and writing?