The other day…many days ago…I don’t remember when…snow fell.
Oh! Oh! Friday! Friday night, impending snow doom. Mmhm. (I’m tired, you forgive me.)
The Mister made the comment that we could shovel on Saturday.
I raised my eyebrows.
Saturday, the snow was slushy.
I thought about shoveling, but then when I got back inside, I forgot about it.
Until I went back out. By then, the sun had gone down, temperatures had plummeted, and the slushy snow had frozen to a point past shoveling.
“Ah, well, it’ll melt,” I said to myself.
It did melt. Before freezing again. And some more snow fell.
By Sunday, the gate had frozen open, the ice had frozen three inches thick on the steps, and the back stoop was just plain perilous.
On Sunday, I took the pointy metal garden shovel out there and beat the fuck out of the ice. Barely made a dent in it.
Monday morning, the back stoop and the dog joined forces in trying to KILL ME.
Tuesday, snow fell again. Moo thought she would go shovel. She came back in rather quickly, “Yeah, no, it’s too icy,” said Moo.
More snow fell last night.
This morning, I poured a kettle full of boiling water onto the back stoop, exposing a six-by-six inch square of wood, safe for feet. I tried, with all my might, to pull the mats up and crack some more ice, but my might was not enough to crack it. This afternoon, some more had melted, and I was able to pull the black rubber mat to the top of the ice.
Everything is an icicle. Now I wait for highs in the forties and some rain.
Shoulda shoveled Saturday.
— Lesson learned, not to be forgotten.