Me and schnee
Dec. 15th, 2007 11:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mamagotchaWoke up this morning to a powdered-sugar world (not unlike what Linc did to the kitchen the other evening when I left a sifter full of confectioner's unattended) . Neighbor guy with toy snowblower revs up about 10am (hey, he let us sleep in for two whole hours this time!) and since he's 80-something, I get out there with my shovel.
The snow is light, fluffy, a bit of grain, like fleur-de-sel but not as grey. It's brilliant white, the kind that would sparkle like Hedwig (the inch, not the owl) if the sun were out. My little helper is industriously shifting the stuff all over the back deck (he has a hat and mittens, honest! He just sheds them immediately when we force them on... he's got Bill's radiator constitution).
The shovel lifts the snow neatly, but the snowblower leaves a dirty quarter-inch film of packed ice in its wake. I follow after and scrape some of it off our common driveway, but give up after the blower's noxious fumes start making me gag... if the ol' coot wants to make ice to skate on, that's his business.
There were bunny tracks around the garage, and a little bird had landed on the front door mat, leaving the remains of an interpretive dance along the lines of "fill the bloody feeder already, would you?" I do as I am told.
Now I'm curled up with a steaming mug of mocha, a biscotti, and a squirmy toddler combing my hair (gotta be careful with that... a few days ago, he dumped a quarter cup of BioSilk on my scalp).
In other news: I wrote and submitted a magazine article yesterday morning... the first in a few years. It's a delight to have the pure and obsessive NEED to write fill me. 1300 words flew effortlessly from my fingers (were they good words? That's still up in the air... we'll see if the articles editor thinks so). But feeling the writing flow again is like crawling into the hot tub when I'm tense and cold... everything is soothed and relaxed, parts of me that I thought were unusable start to limber up and flex again, I can open my eyes and see the stars and just fly anywhere.
The snow is light, fluffy, a bit of grain, like fleur-de-sel but not as grey. It's brilliant white, the kind that would sparkle like Hedwig (the inch, not the owl) if the sun were out. My little helper is industriously shifting the stuff all over the back deck (he has a hat and mittens, honest! He just sheds them immediately when we force them on... he's got Bill's radiator constitution).
The shovel lifts the snow neatly, but the snowblower leaves a dirty quarter-inch film of packed ice in its wake. I follow after and scrape some of it off our common driveway, but give up after the blower's noxious fumes start making me gag... if the ol' coot wants to make ice to skate on, that's his business.
There were bunny tracks around the garage, and a little bird had landed on the front door mat, leaving the remains of an interpretive dance along the lines of "fill the bloody feeder already, would you?" I do as I am told.
Now I'm curled up with a steaming mug of mocha, a biscotti, and a squirmy toddler combing my hair (gotta be careful with that... a few days ago, he dumped a quarter cup of BioSilk on my scalp).
In other news: I wrote and submitted a magazine article yesterday morning... the first in a few years. It's a delight to have the pure and obsessive NEED to write fill me. 1300 words flew effortlessly from my fingers (were they good words? That's still up in the air... we'll see if the articles editor thinks so). But feeling the writing flow again is like crawling into the hot tub when I'm tense and cold... everything is soothed and relaxed, parts of me that I thought were unusable start to limber up and flex again, I can open my eyes and see the stars and just fly anywhere.