So, yeah. That's what I did yesterday.
The world is even brighter today than on Saturday. Cloud cover would be nice. Currently 30˚F.
In the night, some douchebag/s knocked the head off snow cat.* As the hipster nitwits (and dorks who want to look hip) are wont to say, "This is why we can't have nice things."
After the writing yesterday, we went for a walk in the snow, just as the sun was going down. In most places, I sank in up to my ankles, sometimes my knees, but I saw drifts that were at least three-feet high. The cold felt clean and real. Like a paper cut. There are photos below (including some Spooky took earlier in the day). We had a dinner of eggs and canned corned beef hash. We played Rift while I wondered about people with actual social lives (I last saw a friend face-to-face in December). We went to bed early (for a change), and I read about ill-fated Antarctic explorers. Appropriately. Before sleep, Spooky read me Robert McCloskey's One Morning in Maine. But she was stoned and had a migraine and was half asleep and kept making up words that weren't actually there.
The snow plows have yet to reach our street. Someone on snowshoes went past a little while ago. Real snowshoes (sorry, but the Southerner in me must gawk, slack-jawed).
A street that has been plowed.
View north, towards Westminster.
Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow...well...maybe snow. And, soon, Saturdays.
This would be a beautiful shot of Dexter Training Ground, if not for the ugly, candy-colored playground in the background. I may try to Photoshop it away.
Nothing candy colored. Just winter.
Spooky does, indeed, hate having her picture taken.
View towards the Armory (to the south).
More than a hundred and twenty-five years of icicles, surely.
Some unfortunate Time Lord's Port-o-Tardis, stranded in the snow.
The day ends....
* Snow cat's head has been restored.