"And we've got to get ourselves back to the garden."
Though it was a somewhat harrowing drive, we made it into Woodstock about 4 p.m. yesterday, just as the snow began. Of course, there was already snow on the ground here, and, actually, we haven't gotten much new snow yet. Anyway, the portion of the Mass Pike that takes us through the Berkshires was a bit hairy, especially given that Hubero didn't handle the ride very well at all. I'll not go into details. Selwyn was just fine, the perfect passenger. Jesus, it was cold. I watched hawks soaring through the low, snowy clouds, and I marveled at massive sheets of blue ice blanketing towering road cuts. I wished, as I do every time we drive that stretch of western Massachusetts that I had a clearer understanding of the local stratigraphy. And it's impossible for me not to find "Sweet Baby James" stuck in my head:
Now the first of December was covered with snow and so was the turnpike from Stockbridge to Boston. Lord, the Berkshires seemed dreamlike on account of that frosting, with ten miles behind me and ten thousand more to go.
I was five years old when that song was released, and my mother bought the album.
So, yes, we're warm and safe and sound and ensconced in the marvelous cabin. I was asleep last night one thirty or so; almost unheard of. I slept something like nine hours. After giving myself a much needed rest today, tomorrow I'll be hitting the words extra hard.