At last, less than a week before the Spring Solstice, we’ve had snow I can lick, snow I can roll in, snow I can sink in. Ahhhh. Finally.
Well, it’s not really snow; it’s white ice. And, in a way, that’s even better than snow, because it can’t be shoveled. Shane and I watched from the window as Joan gunned her car’s engine and skimmed—sort of in a reverse zig-zag along the icy driveway trying to get enough power to crash through the wall of ice left by the street cleaners. We could hear Kyla telling her to slow down, but she couldn’t slow down or she would have gotten stuck. And, then when they came back, she had to gun it again to get the car up the driveway back into the garage. Sometimes in life, the only way to get through an ice barrier is to shut your eyes and throw the engine in reverse.
I did that this morning when I tried to negotiate the steps that were practically buried under ice slippery enough for a skating rink. Good thing I have these big-dog paws. Hey, I saw a picture of a Burmese Mountain Dog and have decided that I’m a mixture of a Newfy and a Burmese. Don’t you agree? Anyway, if Joan can be Etruscan, I can be Burmese. So, there.
All in all, it was a good day of slipping and resting on the high ice. Once again, Shane proved to be a Mommy’s boy, because he stayed in and watched some dumb Jane Austen story with Joan. La de da. He’s getting to be a regular authority on 19th-century novels made into film. Next thing you know, he’ll be writing his own blog.
Happy Saint Patrick’s Day, Juno
