I like the first cup of coffee in the morning.
I like t-shirt sheets.
I like the Boston Red Sox.
I like Bob Dylan’s music.
I like the Beatles, too. And John Prine. I love John Prine.
I like Annie Dillard’s essay, living like weasels.
I like the sound of snow at 15 below.
I like Elmore Mountain glittering the way it looks to me on the way to work in January from up on West Hill, or actually by then it is probably Town Hill.
I like encountering wild things in wild places; I like the way we stop time when we pause and take each other in.
I like the trees I planted with my Dad, and their story.
I like that they are still here, even though he isn’t, and that I can go see them anytime, and that they will still be here when I am gone also.
I like my string trimmer.
I like it when I wake up a little in the deep night during a snow storm, and hear the wind whipping flakes against the window screen, and the different sounds of each of my cats purring in different spots around the room, and the sound of my small dog snoring. I think of all these things, this is what I like the most.
I like it when somebody else really really likes something, even if I don’t like it, or don’t think I do. Usually, through their liking, I discover I do like something about it.
I like Sunday dinner at my neighbor’s house.
I like Saturday morning.
I like my alpacas.
I like spending time alone with my critters. I like being alone. Actually, other people tire me out, even though I like them, too. Well, most of them.
I like making plans.
I like the feel of clean fleece. Especially alpaca.
I like computers. I like what Steve Jobs said about computers: they are like bicycles for the brain. It’s true. They can be.
I like to figure out how things work.
I like the feral calico cat I have been courting with canned food for the past two years. I like that the prints of a fisher-cat’s tail in the snow by her igloo this winter have caused me to withdraw for the moment, and regroup and reconsider how best to accomplish this wooing.
I like the fact that after all this time I have finally finished knitting a pair of socks. They are misshapen, funny looking things, but they are quite toasty and light and I put them on for sleep.
I like that I have already begun a second pair, because I intend to get good at making socks, and i am getting better.
I like my squash soup, the one with the duct tape in the recipe.
I like merlot and dark chocolate.
I like forget-me-nots and peonies.
I like small rodents.
I like words. I like learning new words. I like that I am a good speller.
I like Colorforms.
I like clay.
I like the smell of cut wood.
I like my chainsaw Gracie.
I like a sheep fold in January when one or two ewes are coming in.
I like a barn in the early morning, the way the yellow light looks, and the sounds, and the smell.
I like the smell of silage and old barn bedding.
I like the way lambs gang up on a molasses block, even though you can tell it scares the bejeezuss out of them individually.
I like the queerness of natural things, quietly going about their business in a way I would never have thought of myself.
I like that I am pretty smart.
I like that my dog can come into the Clip Joint with me when I get my hair cut. I like Tracy the hairdresser. I like that place.
I like felted soaps with good wood scents, like pine and cedar, or hard french milled hand soaps that smell like roses, or lemon, or gardenia. I like stashing one under my pillow in the morning, and inhaling the scent that night when I go to bed.
I like bumping into friends from 25 or 30 years ago, and recognizing them instantly. I like recognizing adults in their baby pictures.
I like to sit on my front porch rocker in a heavy snowfall, drinking something warm and watching the birds. I like that it is so quiet you can hear their wings beat.
I like my new bushwhacking skis I got to improve my attitude about the winter.
I like snow days.
I like that I could probably go on all day and night and the rest of my days writing down the things I like and still have more to go.