Hour by Hour

Today was the first day Fiorella had gone out into the backyard since Husband died, and she found FOUR good-sized fallen branches, an obvious gift from God. Gracias a Dio.
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Right now, Fio is sitting on el sofa en la sala, drinking chocolate caliente, and keeping un ojo on la chimenea mirar si un fuego will start. All she has so far is whisps of slow smoke. Why is it that el novio de su hija can start un fuego en cinco minutos, while it usually takes Fio una hora?
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The fire was still not doing more than smoking so Fio unleashed her frustration on a stupid FB post that said that according to a Gallup Poll, Obama was the least popular president ever. Even Obama-haters know that's a lie, but Fiorella felt ornery enough to leap the fray with a simple "That's untrue." Then came the bombast of nastiness, of course--why is it that so manyTrump supporters have to get personal--but instead of ignoring it, Fiorella decided to bomb the playing field. And she did, listing every one of Trumps sins she could remember without having to consult an encyclopedia.
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As Fio finished up her red-hot diatribe, she heard a snapping sound from the fireplace and looked up to see a fan of beautiful orange flames. Obviously, her anger had turned the trick! OMG--does that mean she's a superhero and can turn on the heat anywhere she goes?
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After a couple of hours, Fiorella let the fire die. The fireplace is about three inches thick with ashes and she wants to clean it out tomorrow. Meanwhile she is watching the news/weather/sports on TV and wondering when broadcasters decided to become comedians. Walter Cronkite never felt the need to lead off with wisecracks or get chummy with his audience.