See the stack of snow on the table? Double it in your mind and then you’ll know the depth of today’s snow. Thirty miles outside of here, ground blizzards held our countryside hostage. Somewhere — on my sister’s farm, for example, Thanksgiving arrived without turkey dinners. Sturdy as she is, she was glad to have fresh bread in the bread box and cold black olives in the frig. Not being able to get to the relatives for a holiday dinner is something to take in stride, when you are a striding-type of person such as my sister.
When the wind let up, she and her husband booted up and headed out to load bales of straw. In town, lazy after our turkey dinner, we were living the unbooted life, playing games at the kitchen table . . .
until I biffed it as the tea kettle on Pennsylvania Avenue. $1275 for one night in my son’s hotel? No favored- mom discounts?!
The bales of straw came to town the next day — the weather had warmed, the wind had died, the tea kettle was put away. My daughter and her first-graders had plans to be in the Holiday Parade that evening, riding on a flatbed, singing carols, sitting on straw bales. In return for picking up horse feed for my sister, we got not only a pickup-load of bales but the use of the softest, creamiest, warmest bale-totting gloves in any five-state area.
Really, that’s all I wanted to write about: totting the bales with my daughter, slipping on ice together, holding each other up by the elbow. Fun!
Here’s a random sans-creamy-bale-totting-gloves photo to look at while I confess to you: I entirely missed the parade (insert guilty-mom-face-thingy here.)