A blizzard came to town, a bona fide blizzard. For a whole day, the snow blew and drifted, and each time I passed by the window 'twas with a wish for more. (I took back my wish when I thought of you, Dad!) 20 inches in the end, and I can not ever remember this place with more.
We've had a cracklin' fine fire. In the fireplace, not atop the stove. We've read: Aaron sinking his imagination deep in C.S. Lewis' space trilogy and me trilling along with the lighter work of Jan Karon. (Does anyone else want to move to Mitford?)
We tried to build an igloo. The success was minimal. We couldn't agree on the particulars of the roof, and I was cold, and what had seemed like such a fun idea, a memory in the making, rapidly turned not so fun. Boo. But amends were made over dinner soup.
We played ice-hockey. That was fun. No complicated engineering there.
Aaron shoveled the equivalent of Manhattan with a shovel left by the old owners of our house.
I made enough baked goods for everyone living in Manhattan.
We moved four pieces of furniture out of our bedroom so that we could slide our bed into various and contorted positions. Experimentation is sometimes necessary to discover what one innately senses. Our bed fits in one and one place only.
To this snow day turned snow week, I say: let's have a rendezvous again. Next winter? When an excuse to be a homebody comes knocking, I won't leave him on the front stoop. I do so like imposed hermit-hood. Now if only we could find Pops a job other than postman...