The title is a nod to a poem by T. S. Eliot and describes what we did Sunday. Visit the house in the hills with a snowblower. Good thing, because the snow was over three feet deep around the door. It would have taken hours to move enough snow to get into the house with shovels. At the end of the driveway, it was solid and frozen. And deep. I had a chair leaning up against the woodshed door to hold it shut, that was completely covered with snow. This house has been here for well over 100 years (some would say it's been 200 years), and even though I've worried about it this winter from my house down in the city, every time I come here and step inside, I see how solid it is. It could easily stand another hundred years. It's got a nice, new, metal roof!
The other house has only been on this planet for 49 years and it's youth is showing. Things break. Things don't work. But it's close to work and to life in the city and I like it very much. At least the 1/3 of it that I'm living in.
Here's a picture of the parking lot at work yesterday, showing Mount Snow growing daily. Much of the problem this time of year is where to put the snow, since it's not melting between snowstorms. Huge piles around driveways and stop signs make it difficult to see when cars are coming. Snowblowers reveal archeological layers of white snow, then grey snow, then more white, etc, etc. One can count the snow layers and tie them to particular storms. "That one is the Christmas Eve storm," and "the one above it is the storm a week later", etc, etc.
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