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First of all, let's discuss the weather and its ramifications. Without even acknowledging a recent snowfall of fluffy white flakes that could be whisked away with one sweep of the broom—without even taking this into consideration I am left with a sufficient number of weather instances to keep me going for a while.
Because of the specific timing of the various freezes, thaws, rains, ice storms, and snowfalls during January and February, the condition of the roads and sidewalks varies from block to block in the city. Did the homeowner fail to shovel snow the day before the ice storm crusted it over and then the freeze hardened it into slick stone? Did the carefully shoveled snow begin to melt from its pile and leak water onto the walkways so it could freeze into invisible glass (even less visible if it was then covered with a thin layer of the fluffy white)?
I was out and walking yesterday for the first time in five days. I have discovered in myself an ability to curse. Not your standard "blankety-blank" kind of curse but the kind uttered by real witches, as in "A pox upon your house through the third generation of sons"—that kind of curse. I walk along a block of beautifully cleared sidewalks, striding and breathing deeply of the crisp, cold air of the season. And then, with no warning, I come across a house with a corner lot, and there were 50 linear feet of ice. Solid, four-inch thick ice from curb up to the edge of the house itself. Can't go around it. Can't go under it. I have to go through it. My stride shortens to the baby steps of a two-year-old encountering his first ice rink. For me it isn't the first time, more's the pity. It's a familiar, terrifying situation of potential fractures and concussions (among my close friends during this time were a broken fibula and a broken hip). And once I'm past this uncaring household's frontage and back onto solid concrete, I turn to the offending house, raise my arms as if I were truly an avenging angel, and hurl my curse: A pox upon . . . etc.
I doubt that it will be effective, since I haven't really honed my black arts skills. But such is my anger.
Being fair-minded, I look for mitigating circumstances: the homeowners are in their 90s, too frail to wield a snow shovel. So hire someone! A new baby is in the house requiring all the time in their world. So hire someone! They shoveled but the clear sidewalk was attacked by the ice storm and then they were busy and couldn't shovel and then, you know: life got in the way. And so forth. So get out there with the ice breaker and chop away at your dangerous walk. Make an effort!
That's really all I ask: make an effort!
Now, on the plus side of the weather I can report how exciting it is to see all the lawns and gardens covered with many inches of solid ice and to know that somewhere under that heavy load are tulip bulbs, crocuses, snowdrops, and scylla—all biding their time. I'm biding mine as well, 'cause that's the kinda gal I'm.
Did I mention that in some places the ice that edges out over the sidewalk has now been undercut and is ripe for the thwock of breaking if you tap it with your toe? The most satisfying winter sound!
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
