Several more inches of snow are possible before this ends over the weekend. We already have about 18 inches on the ground. And on the car, the porch, the roof. And that's in addition to the foot that was already there. Our back yard looks like a mogul ski course. Or, being a writer, like a place where lots of bodies are buried.
But I have power, heat, food, drink.
And an insane streak.
During the worst of the monster storm that bore down on the Eastern seaboard Thursday, David and I decided to go out for a walk. We bundled up, spent a few minutes trying to recall where the front steps were, and slid on out into our neighborhood. Yes, visibility was almost zero (ours and the cars'), the streets had been only narrowly plowed, and our township is out of salt. Did that deter us?
"Look at the big flakes," I sighed.
David: "You mean the snow, right? Not the two idiots in the middle of the street."
But the snowplows kindly declined to use us for hood ornaments, and we walked the neighborhood.
We're not going to be driving anytime soon anyway.
View from the porch. Note the bird bath.
A few views of the neighborhood. That's our park, below. Snow up to the seat of the bench.
Okay, this might be my favorite picture.
Last evening, after I finished work, I was texting with my friend Linda about what time we'd be getting up to shovel in the morning, and she said that her husband -- upon learning who she was texting -- remarked, "I wish I had some chocolate chip cookies." He is rather fond of the ones I make. I said I had everything but the chips .... and three minutes after I hit 'send', her husband -- having bounded over three-foot-drifts -- appeared at our front door with a container of them.
I must admit cookies go very well with hot buttered rum when the snow is falling.