Those were the words shouted by Emmy's best-actor champ Paul Giamatti in best miniseries of 2008, "John Adams," as British troops approached the home of Abigail Adams and family. No authorities chase me nowadays (my randy years in college were another matter), but I still fly to the woods when the awards derby slows down a bit during the holidays.

After spending Christmas with my dad, brother, sister and two nephews in Ohio last week, I scooted off to my cabin up in Pennsylvania's Pocono Mountains. There's snowy quiet everywhere — ah, bliss — and, in the mornings, an eerie mist hugs the trees. Very odd. Fog doesn't usually climb up this high. Or are these clouds dipping low?

Sorry that I haven't blogged much lately. Personal priorities keep intervening — such as a dire need to re-read an old anthology of literature as I doze off and on and off again before a dancing fireplace. I found the old book in the attic — hadn't spied its pages since high school. I have been determined to keep reading story after story until I remember how one ends. Success will tell me that my weary journalist's mind hasn't forsaken sacred literature utterly. But, truth be told, Flannery O'Connor and her creepy Misfit ambushed me at the end of the once-familiar "A Good Man Is Hard to Find" and, though I recalled that William Faulkner's nasty ole lady was as evil as the house she haunted in "A Rose for Emily," I forgot what terrible secret she left on her bed upstairs for authorities to find after she died.

Just threw another log on the fire and cracked open the anthology again. Aha! Shirley Jackson's "The Lottery"! Edgar Allan Poe's "The Cask of Amontillado"! I do surely know what dastardly turns they have in store ahead!

Now if only I can foretell what those crazy characters in Hollyweird will do in 2009 — then I can truly rest up. Meantime, I will read a bit more to unwind if you don't mind, while wishing all of you, my dear Derbyites, a Happy New Year!