It’s been an interesting week in the Northeast United States. In just a few days, we’ve had more than a foot of snow in the Pennsylvania Highlands. It’s the kind of snow that lays thick and wet and weighs down the evergreen boughs. It’s a pretty picture, but it’s a pain in the rear for anyone traveling.
We live on the side of a mountain and need four-wheel drive trucks to get up and down the steep driveway in the winter. If I’m not careful, my vehicle could slide down, down, down and roll off the cliff and onto the railroad tracks at the river’s edge. If I’m really unlucky, I’ll keep rolling and end up in the river. That’s never going to happen, as long as good sense prevails and my speed is minimal.
It’s quiet and isolated. A perfectly lovely spot to live and write.
On snow days, my husband pulls on his long johns and flannel shirt, then wields the shovel and cranks up the snow blower. I stand in the doorway, secure and warm, watching as he trudges up and down the long drive in a snow daze. He pushes the machine and its serrated-steel augers cut and hurtle plumes of snow over his shoulder.
Today, we’ve received another five inches, so he’ll be heading out the door soon to start the process again. And I’m grateful to have such a generous and loving partner who not only takes care of me, he even digs a path to the woods for my cats and dog.
What a guy!
