I am writing this from Maine, where the snow plowed up against the barn door is probably ten feet deep. The barn, garage, and house—attached to each other, typical early New England— form a cul de sac, and Jesse, who plows, has no place to push it when he gets up into that corner...so it all goes against the barn door and gets higher and higher and higher.
It is lovely to be here in winter, though the day started badly yesterday. The plan was to pack two cars (driving separately because Martin would be coming back to Cambridge a couple days before me), leave mid-morning, allowing time to stop in Kittery, Maine, to meet my daughter Kristin, who lives near there, for lunch and to exchange Xmas gifts before heading on north.
So: the dog got me up at 5:30 AM. I went downstairs and let him out, then lay down on the couch in the TV room to snooze until he wanted to come back in. Zzzzzzz...until at 7 AM I was startled awake by water dripping on me. Oh dear! The house is a three-story federal colonial house. When we remodeled it 12 years ago, we moved the laundry upstairs to the second floor (near the clothes, right? Makes sense?) Now I was lying on a couch directly under the upstairs laundry room and water. was. dripping, on. my. head.
Ah, but it turned out not to be a leaky washing machine hose. It was the wonderful New England phenomenon known as an Ice Dam...when a roof edge becomes frozen and water backs up under the ice and then..stealthily...into the house...across the innards above the ceiling...and then...drip drip...onto one's head.
The recent weather has so lent itself to that possibility: Snow, rain sleet, freeze, ice, snow, rain, etc. etc....