Journal of a Sabbatical

February 6, 2001

oh my, what a lot of snow

Today's Reading: The Island of Penguins by Cherry Kearton, Winter: from the Journals of Henry David Thoreau edited by H.G.O. Blake

Life imitates Snowbound. I briefly imagined having to tunnel to my car just like the tunnel to the barn.

I woke up several times during the night. A couple of times the wind woke me. The rest of the time it was my worry about whether it was time to get out there and shovel the snow yet so Busy Body would not be yelling at me and brandishing a shovel. I kept looking out the window.

Needless to say when morning came around I was not feeling well rested. And there was a way wicked lot of snow out there. At least a foot of heavy wet snow. It took me about an hour to dig my car out. The weirdest thing? Busy Body did not appear outside her unit for the entire time I was out there digging out. Her car was buried just like everyone else's, showing no signs of her usual preemptive snow removal. Just before I left at 10:00 for Perfecto's, she came out of her unit and I managed to walk right by her without so much as making eye contact. If she said anything to me, I successfully blocked it out.

The surreal TV at Perfecto's had the captioning turned off so the talking heads were mute. There was a lot of static on the screen too. So much that the stock ticker was unreadable. I got an egg and cheese sandwich on a foccacia bagel and a large dark roast coffee of the day to fortify myself before therapy.

By noon the streets were running rivers of slush. My feet got wet. My right shoe gets water inside the sole and makes a squishing noise when I walk. The water squirts out the back of the shoe in little jets. It's wild. I leave a trail of tiny puddles. I bought new shoes last week but didn't want to wear them in the slush. We are talking major slush. So major that I decided to wear the water-squirting dirty slushy shoes to the wake for one of the MRFRS board members this evening. Anyway, the shoes are not important.

It's weird knowing somebody only as an old person then seeing pictures of him when he was young. Mr. L. was already in his 80's when I met him so my entire image of him is as a very old man. At the funeral parlor, his wife had placed pictures of him at age 21 next to the casket. He was quite a looker when he was young. Dark and handsome.

By the time I left, the slush was starting to freeze over.