This week's adventure: a trip to Middleburg.

Adventures are never sure things. That's part of what makes them adventures. Each trip carries with it the danger of total failure. "Failure" means "nothing new," in this case.

I drove down to Middleburg, stopped just inside town, and walked around. I'd been there once before, for a book signing with Dick Francis. My parents are big fans of his; I've never read any of his books through. They're well-written; just not my cup of tea.

I remember the bookstore fondly. 'Twas an old-style bookstore. Small. Lots of wood. Vaguely musty smells. Hand-written signs. Hardwood floors that echoed every boot and heel.

It's gone now, sadly, and that robbed the town of much of its appeal for me. Otherwise it's similar to Leesburg, with a stronger flavor of Hunt Country. Lots of antique shops, high-end clothing stores, and a few hole-in-the-wall delis.

I did make one discovery, though. Walking along main street, I found what looked like a bank, but promised to be a "Traditional Butcher and Graziers."

I looked inside, and my jaw dropped. It's literally an English butcher and general store. Small and densely packed, but clean and not cramped. Everything was fresh and organic. It was apparently run by a farm, so much of the dairy and produce came from a farm a few miles away.

If Middleburg weren't so far, I'd drive down here every week and buy all my groceries here. What a pity.

This was Christmas: parents, the house I grew up in, a big tree, the dogs, and comfort.

Peace and perfection.

Yesterday I filled up my black truck Roger with gas, got out on the open road, and headed south. No destination in mind; I wanted to see what was there.

Ten minutes outside of town, I saw red-and-yellow streamers fluttering in the wind on the side of the road, near an antique shop. I pulled in at the long, low building, and stepped inside.

There's a mustiness peculiar to antique stores. There's always a whiff of antiseptic cleaner somewhere, but still everything feels half-buried in the dust of the centuries. Nothing caught my eye; the place was full of old coins, faded music scores, bent iron tools (half of which would've looked comfortable in a horror movie), and well-worn furniture.

So, back on the road. A few minutes later, I passed a beautiful old ruin of a brick building, pulled off the side of the road, and took a few pictures. It doesn't look burned out, but somebody abandonded this place long ago. What happened?

I returned to my truck and kept driving. I passed through the tiny town of Aldey, parked, and walked around the Old Mill, but little interested me there. There wasn't even a restaurant. I continued on.

Just as I neared the time when I needed to head back, a red, white, and blue flag proclaiming "OPEN" neared. Below it stood two signs, one naming the place a winery, the other inviting me in for hot mulled wine. Well, I thought, if they're going to be that polite about it, I'll accept.

I pulled in past acres of winter-bare vineyards, up to a house on a hill. According to a large sign, I was at Swedenburg Winery. As I stepped out of my truck, a collie mix barked "Hello" and wagged its tail. I smiled and made my way up to the house, accepting a few friendly sniffs as I went inside.

A beautiful foyer awaited me, and two lovely young women. For three George Washingtons I sampled twice that many varieties of wine, as well as the aforementioned mulled wine. The warmth spread to my bones. I ordered a bottle of it, and one of their rosé (marvellous, delicate flavor).

I returned home, content with my adventure, richer two bottles of wine and an hour's worth of memories.

My Wii sold for $340. I lost money, strictly, given the games that I sold with it; a new Wii is $250, each game cost $30-$50, and I had to pay $70 to ship it all next day. But it's a used system, and frankly it's one less thing on my mind. I'm happy.

I've delivered most of my Christmas cookies. If you haven't received any yet, I should be stopping by your house in the next few days.

Attended a Messiah Sing-Along concert with Mandy and Kirsten this week. Great fun. They brought their scores and sang along, and I marvelled at their amazing voices. I just stood there and listened and tried to follow along. They graciously offered a score, but I preferred to immerse myself in the river of music and swim as best I could. I think I got more out of it than if I'd been trying to read music the whole time.

I also arranged with Mandy to learn the acoustic guitar with her, and to see Enchanted this weekend. Fingers crossed on both counts.

My Nintendo Wii console is up for auction on eBay. I love my Wii, but I haven't played a game on it in months, despite owning several great games. I can do better things with the money it'll bring in.

It's funny about that. I just don't feel the urge to play video games. It's escapism, which is fine, but there are so many other ways in which I can escape (into a book, or into my raw imagination). I'd rather run around an alien planet in my mind than on a console. The challenges will always interest me more anyway.

Staying home from work today. I feel rather overwhelmed at the moment. I pushed myself to attend several social engagements in the past week. December is a busy time, and I haven't given myself enough time to recharge.

I bought myself a few toys, though: a replacement still camera, and an 80 GB iPod Classic. My only other iPod was a first-generation Shuffle, bought because it was cheap enough I was willing to experiment. I've listened to so many podcasts in the car now that I've proved its worth.

This full-scale iPod sports far more features than I need, though. Games? Don't I own an iPod so I can listen to music during idle moments?

Perhaps I'm cranky because I'm spending less time on the computer. Thanks to a wonderful conversation with Brennen, I re-evaluated my tendency to fill my spare time with computer usage. It's wonderful to spend so much of my time in the moment, cooking or drawing or gardening or what-have-you.

This also allowed me to finish Stanislavski's An Actor Prepares in a tiny fraction of the time I'd normally allowed. It's a fantastic book for any creative person. It discusses the importance of living in the moment, being self-aware, and observing what's going on around you. He recommends that, every night as you lay in bed, you try to remember as many details as possible about your day. When did you leave the house? How fast did you drive? What did the clerk say? What was the color of the car next to you? What clothes did your friend wear? When you greeted her, what did she seem to be feeling?

Since memory is a muscle, practice improves it, and gives you great oceans of material for creative projects. Think of how many inventors describe the genesis of their inventions by starting, "I just noticed that a lot of people were...." They fully saw the people around them.

May we all have such presence.

I've started baking my yearly Christmas cookies. I'll probably make my rounds of friends' houses this week, so if you come home late some evening to find a plate of cookies on your doorstep, that's why.

I came home full of purpose, ready to move forward on several projects as planned. I checked my email as I chowed down on a tuna sandwich, and noticed an email about the next writer's group meeting. I planned to present the outline for the first Giant Armors novel.

I glanced at the date. That meeting was for tonight. I had an hour to get there.

So I grabbed my materials and leapt into my truck. The fuel gauge hovered near the bottom of the scale, so I stopped for gas. I zipped down the highway. As I neared our meeting place, my eyes happened to rest on the engine temperature gauge.

It was near the red zone.

So I pulled over. This happened about two months ago, thanks to old hoses. So I popped the hood, fished a small flashlight from the bottom of the glove compartment, and checked the engine. Looked fine.

So. I drove another few miles. The temperature gauge would rise a bit, fall back to normal, rise a bit more, fall back to normal, and repeat until it neared the red zone.

So. I pulled over to the side of the road and called my parents. They found phone numbers for a few tow services; none of them were available. So. I made my way to writer's group, 20 minutes late, and nobody was there.

Called my parents again; Dad said he'd come to pick me up. I wandered Border's for a bit, then ordered some tea, sat down, and concentrated on brainstorming the ending of the Giant Armors series. Only got a few things down before Dad arrived.

So. I drove my truck to a nearby Shell station, where the friendly attendant took all the relevant information. Dad drove me back to my parents' house, where I visited for a while, then took one of their vehicles back home.

So here's the big question: Was my evening a complete waste?

I was tempted to think so a few times. In a sense, yes, In another sense, I reacted to an emergency. I didn't freak out. I evaluated options, sought advice, and resolved problems as best I could.

I decided—consciously—to stay upbeat. I didn't want to feel depressed, so I decided to act positively. Which may sound like I made myself happy. No; I was simply not depressed. I felt my frustration, acknowledged it, and let it pass.

Because, frankly, it's just one evening. Someday I'll look back on this and laugh at its pettiness. So I dealt with engine trouble for an evening. So what?