Today we ventured out, through the unplowed fluff and slush, because Jeff suggested--for the second day in a row--that we “go somewhere warm and dry and get some food.” Last night I dispelled the notion by pointing out that we were under full-blown snowfall, no plows would attempt our street until morning, and I doubted whether many local eateries were expecting customers. When he brought it up again this morning, I was more receptive--not because we didn’t have food, warmth, and dryness at home (we did,) but because I figured he must be missing his regular lunches out, and besides, I’d dispatched the final 2 inches in the driveway this morning.
So we rallied Gabe who--remarkably--had showered already, and navigated the messiness to Garry’s Grill, a local hash house. After a scintillating lunchtime description of Gabe’s various zombie-based dreams, we’ve returned to a house under full sun, with icicles melting in drips all around. Except for the ones which have fallen off altogether, such as these which apparently crashed to the ground while we were at lunch.
As of this extraordinary winter, I’m a full-on advocate for serious snow boots, like this excellent North Face pair which I acquired, with fortuitous timing, just before the pre-Christmas onslaught when the first 18” of the season hit us. The right gear, that’s all it takes for me to embrace my father’s haplogroup I, Nordic Y chromosome.
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