Here in Southwest Ohio, the news has reported the warmest January of record. While that fact may be true, what stands out for me is not so much the unseasonable warmth but the extremes. On Friday, yesterday, after a week of mild and sunny days touching almost 60 degrees, the temperature plunged within hours to the teens, where they have stayed since. Today the neighborhood resembles a tundric world of powdered sugar.

It has not been unusual on my walks with Grace to see the chutes of flowers tentatively pushing through the earth. They should survive, garden experts say, as long as they do not grow enough to bloom.

I haven't minded the weather extremes. They have come in grand rolling fronts of alternating drizzly warms and frigid colds, often advancing by surprise in the middle of the night. At those times, it's been oddly comforting to wake to hear the house quietly creaking against a noise outside, the wind crying through the window sashes. Shadows of branches tumble against the walls.

In the last month, there has been a rush of activity here on Daleoak Street. The bathroom vanity was installed; the crumbling chimney has been rebuilt. Grace greets Estimators with clipboards and uniformed workmen alike.

When Tenant stops by to pay his February rent (early, on January 28th), I say "I suppose you'll be giving notice and heading for the suburbs now that the Governor has passed his little bill overruling the laws requiring City Employees to live within city limits."

"Not necessarily," says Tenant, standing there bird-like on the front porch, blinking his eyes, "It's practically guaranteed that a Stay will be issued. It will take two to three years to appeal through the courts and there's a good chance it won't last; the courts honor laws passed by popular vote." Blink, blink, "Besides, I like it here. This is a good street."

"Uhuh, well that's good," I say, looking at the rent check. "Just so you know, I'm pretty aggressively looking for a new job; I have four interviews in the next two weeks. I'm not saying anything will happen. Just don't be surprised if you come home and you see a realtor's sign on the front yard."

"Huh really? Hey, let me know because I might be interested in buying the place. You'd be saving realtors' commissions if you did a private deal."

"Oh. Yah, sure. I don't know what I will ask, I don't know what to expect. I'll be happy to break even. Like, have you noticed the number of houses in this neighborhood that have been on the market for months? There's a couple that have been empty the entire time I've been back."

"They're being greedy, they want too much. When I was married we lived a few blocks over and when we going through the split, I had the house up for sale for $170,000 -- 2,400 square feet, 4 beds, a finished basement. It sat and sat for months, no one even called about it. So eventually the bank got it and then it sells at auction for $161,000. $161,000! I would have taken that."

"Well I won't ask $161,000 for this place, ha ha."

"So you leaving Dayton?"

"Eventually, yeah. Who knows on these interviews. Some of these jobs are internal, still local. A couple are out West, in Colorado. One is in D.C. I bet I jynxed it by mentioning them. If I get one local, I'll move back to Cincy. Regardless, the fixed rate of the mortgage on this place is up mid next year. That's the outside deadline for being gone."

"Good Luck, man, and let me know."

Last night, watching a library rental (The Exorcist, Director's Cut), I hear more than just Linda Blair screaming. Something is going on next door. It must be the night for Tenant's custody of his teenaged daughters and they are fighting. Two high-pitched voices, screaming like hurricanes on the other side of the wall. I hear Tenant intervening, his voice white-hot, muffled yelling. "OW!" one daughter screams. Through the front door, I see a car, not my Tenant's, idling in the driveway.

I turn up the TV's sound. Why here? Why now? The Priests sit exhausted on the stairs of the house in Georgetown. It's calculated to make us doubt. To make us lose Faith. The screaming next door has suddenly quieted, the house shakes slightly as someone thunders up the stairs. Headlights flash across the door, once, as the car in the driveway backs out and pulls away.

Today, this morning is a morning for hot tea and soup. In my green-and-white kitchen, I page through Videohound (1997 ed.) for The Exorcist facts. I feel I am not alone.

I look up, across a yard and two fences. Two houses down, the kitchen window is opposite mine and a child is resting his head against the frame. A small blond head and a red sweater framed in white with black shutters. Can he see me? I decide he cannot. He stares directly at me, but the eyes are absent.