Mulling things on my morning ramble
with Storm, the family’s mixed Lab.
Not for the snow, but the omnipresent muck, I pulled on the rubber boots this morning.
Sloppy remnant snow drifts littered the back side of the town pond. In town, snow piles hung around like obese omnivores at Country Buffet steam tables.
Finally feels like the melt-off is here.
Overnight, some corner was turned. Most of the remaining snow cover in town disappeared.
When we set out in the dark, it was an incredible 49 degrees, though a stiff south wind made it feel colder.
The meathead wasn’t as wild as I expected. Maybe I just wanted to transpose my joy at the change to him.
But he loved it when I decided to see how much ice remained on the town pond and we trekked out to slop around.
Any place where something dark, like a stick-up or old tire poked up, the ice was melted into a small black hole. Melting lines radiated from old ice-fishing holes like something from a psychedelic ’60s sunrise image. Only in black and white instead of vivid colors.
There’s enough ice that I am debating taking a long rod today and trying to jig through melted holes around brush and stickups.
I looked at our maple in the backyard to see if I needed to prune anything, but it looked OK. The raspberries I planted in Grandma Bowman’s memories are tangled mess. Should clip them back a bit.
Good to consider these things.
My mid-February planting of sugar peas in Grandma’s memory will have to wait. A persistent drift blankets my garden.
As I left the kids out the front door for their walk to school, my wife said, “Get the `Let it snow” decoration by the door. I don’t think we need it any more.”
Sometimes, real life is more unreal than fiction.
All the same, I suspect snow will fly again in a few days.
My mind doesn’t concede happiness easily in February.