Ah. my chickens have come home to roost. I’ve been posting old pictures of people and letters about them and from them and stuff I didn’t even know – like Sherman’s first marriage. As I was typing about the snow and the driveway “stuckings”, Der Bingle found something on the floor under the dining room table. I had put away some tablecloths earlier this week. No, I am not fancy, but I get great tablecloths at Church Rummage Sales – some from the 40″s and 5o’s, some with embroidery.

I don’t know where the corner is of this article – somewhere gone with the dust to dust thing, no doubt.

I also don’t know what the adjective was in front of afterglow – a word that starts with “g”. But I am so betting it was golden because I was probably racing a deadline. Or could it have been glowing?

That reminds me. Once an editor remarked, “This needs an ending sentence. You know, the ones you do that sound so good and mean absolutely nothing.”

I was going to write about the great stuck in the car and the spot where the driveway meets the street. I thought perhaps I would show pictures of  re-enactments. Let me sum up why I am not doing that: We got more snow and the pants I put on this morning are hanging in front of the heater because the legs are soaked from doing it all over again.

This time Der Bingle was at the wheel in the exact same spot. Cameron rushed out to help, not stopping to put on socks because he thought his grandpa might strain and have a heart attack; Summer went out; then they called for me to get behind the wheel while they pushed and dug some more and pushed and whatever. Finally, with Der Bingle behind the wheel and no one pushing, he made it onto the road.

Cameron and Summer worked on smoothing out all bumps and new snow from where the driveway meets the street and I pushed the light snow aside until Cameron insisted I come in. I tried to explain that it took no effort at all to do that but he felt better with me inside. Cripe . . . I’m officially an old lady in his eyes.

No pictures but then we’ve seen so many pictures of snow. This little link from LZP is interesting, though. Oh, the fables that could arise from visions of this.

When I was quite little, my father would tell me bedtime stories that were about things that really happened in our lives – such as “The night Duane broke his arm.” (It was a basketball game and his dad, Glen, and my dad took him to the hospital.) I suppose if  we lived in Iowa and I was little now, he would be telling me the story of “The Giant Snowblower and the giant snow mound.”