Our entrance light wears a snow cap.
There is a car somewhere under the snow.
Now, where did we put that snow shovel?
Pole vaulting, anyone?
A tobogan might help.
Our snow covered street.
Nineteen inches of snow are something of a record for our village. It isolates us from the nearby Washington, DC and makes us feel as if we were living in David Lean's set of Dr. Zhivago. So far, our neighbors' fences are safe from us thanks to our wonderful wood guy, who brought us a cord of locust and cherry a week before our first snowfall, earlier in the month. We stoke Morsolino, our Scandinavian wood stove, put on the kettle and brew oceans of tea. We bake bread, make soup and rejoice in the quiet the follows winter storms.
During the previous first snowfall, a paltry thing that did not merit any cancellations, the snow plow driver saw fit to spend the entire night scritch-scratching his way around the village. This time around, when the accumulation really called for strong measures, he make a couple of passes on main street and called it quites. " When asked if being marooned in her house at the edge of the woods, Trudy Thundermouse replied with her usual eloquence.
"Hit don't bother me none. Ah've gots me a good bottle of sherry and my mainly main brung me lots of chocolates, tangerines an'oranges and some new desktop publishing softywear. mah turkey's a-thawin' for Xmas. Eve and ah just chillin', just chillin' like the good Lord meant me to."
Quarrel with Trudy's wisdom, if you wish. I think she has a point. Chilling is good. That is just what I plan to do as soon as I get ready for the freezing rain and subzero temps on the forecast for the rest of the week. Button up you overcoat!