Sunday, December 27, 2009
Showdowns and snowdowns.
As follows most holiday whirlwinds, our house is a disaster. I like it. Instead of its usual empty feel, there's junk lying around, stuff I didn't put there myself. Mostly it's empty boxes and scraps of wrapping paper. Yes, I'll be forced to tidy it eventually, but right now I'm stuffing the guilt aside with a handful of single-bite Twix that George forced into my stocking. Mmm. Holidays good. Putting off the cleaning feels even better.
We spent yesterday shovelling our front sidewalk, never more aware of how long it stretches across our half-acre yard. Yikes. More than a foot of wet, heavy snow between us and our neighbors, then between our back door and the garage lay a whole new area of snow coverage. I love to shovel, actually. Bundling up in clothing I rarely wear here, including heavy-duty new gloves, fills me with an ache for my snow-racked Minnesota childhood. We do not have piles of clean, white snow in which to dig tunnels and forts here. So by the time George came outside fully bundled up, I had eagerly cleared off the back porch and shoveled a path to the garage. I am grinning and cherubic with cold (I prefer 'cherubic' to 'frost-bitten'). We shuffled through the snow to the front, where we cleared a fat swath of walkway for the mailman. By tomorrow, no doubt, our snow will be graying and coarse, the texture of unbleached sea salt. Depressing. But for now my back sports a delightful burning that means I shoveled.
Of course, I forgot the camera for part B of our holiday celebration, mostly comprised of nephew Patrick running over everyone's feet with his new 'motorcycle,' complete with a recorded voice of a Cars character yelling "Get out of my way!" Hilarious. The next day we were temporarily snowed in, which led to a leisurely breakfast of leftovers and muffins and Harry & David pears (yum!). And then, in typical post-holiday fashion, I felt absolutely ill. Too much of too much. Time to go home.