Our laundry room is not connected to the apartment proper. Instead, one must leave the house, walk ten feet outside, and enter through a short, metal door. It is important to duck, a lesson I’ve learned several times. Everytime I go there, I can’t help but pretend I’m somewhere in a small town in England. There is a quiet though constant stream just behind the bushes that separate our driveway from the back lawn of the town library. Our lawn is always green, despite its being late winter. The shade varies from living green to straw yellow-green depending on the season, but it’s always some green. But what gets to me is the stillness and the dampness. The sky is a perpetual grey, even at night. And as I carry my clothes back through that tiny door, the pearl clouds and quiet air transport me to Scotland. It makes me smile. Living with my dad and sister is really nice; and I’m in no hurry to leave. Unless, of course, it’s two and a half weeks from now, and I have left. To live in Missouri. [I may move there temporarily to act as a live-in nanny. My cousins Merry and Hannah have to learn to drive, you know.] Yesterday was Groundhog’s Day. I don’t know what Punxsutawney Phil predicted, but my sister, whose birthday coincides with the holiday and therefore has equal authority on matters of the future on this day, at least in my book, says things are going to continue to be just fine.