Aside from the weather and just about everything else, it’s been a good month. This is the sort of old-fashioned winter we had when I was a kid—though when I was a kid I could handle it. Rather than the usual one-day snow dump (the St. Patrick’s Day surprise), angels and seraphs, thrones and dominions have been shaking their copious dandruff on us for months. Other cities in the region have been largely spared. We’re getting the stuff that usually lands on Syracuse or Buffalo. It’s hard not to take it personally.
I had to venture out a few weeks ago to lay in the most essential of supplies, without which I could not begin to face arctic gloom. As I was bringing in the first case of my sanity-saving libations, I caught my foot on a snowbank and lost my balance. I landed fine, but I broke a rib trying to get back on my feet. Eventually it occurred to me to grab the bumper of my car to lever myself back up. So much for this whole “going outside” thing.
Since then we have had several more feet of snow and the wheels of our car are frozen to the driveway. One of us (not me) will have to go out eventually because provisions (of the sort that Amazon does not deliver) are again running low. We have enough food to get through the siege, at any rate. But why rush to the embrace of John Barleycorn at the first sign of trouble? These are, I am constantly assured, the Best of Times
