Seven is a perfectly fine number.
Days of the week, colors in the rainbow, notes in the scale. The seven seas, seven continents and seven ancient wonders.
The ancient Egyptians considered the number seven to be sacred, a holy creation of the gods that symbolized completeness and perfection.
Seven has always been a number of some significance.
This is when seven is bad:
We are, at this moment, caught up in a Polar Vortex. Those frigid jet streams that usually swirl around our polar ice caps have slipped a bit and caught us up in their gelid skirts.
Planes have been grounded, schools have closed (not all!), and countless pipes have burst. These seven little degrees are not quite the problem in and of themselves, it is the wind. The terrible, biting, burning wind that is rattling our rafters and bringing things to a standstill.
I have a fire lit and, as usual, I am decked out in LL Bean from head to toe. I will remain cozied up in my cashmere bedecked hibernaculum until the temperature decides to be civil
