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So: snow. As I believe Lord Byron put it, “A metric buttload thereof.” Winter has finally arrived, and with a vengeance: we got about a foot, which put the kye-bosh on church yesterday morning. Our neighborhood had actually gotten one pass of the plow when I got up to check the cancellations at 7:30, and when I got up for good at 9 the street was largely clear of snow. My neighbors down the street had a snowblower, and being the kind and intellectual folks that they are, they blew all the snow off their driveway and into the street, where it froze overnight. Thanks, guys! Good job!

The idea of spending several hundred dollars on a snowblower when my driveway is only about 600 square feet makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit, so I went out with Sarah’s old shovel and went to work. The old shovel has an aluminum blade, which suffers from the flaw that after a few scoops, snow sticks to it like burnt cheese to an iron skillet. Every minute or so I had to slam the edge of it against the concrete so that it would pick up more than a shotglass’s worth of snow per scoop. After 20 minutes or so, I had done the sidewalk and the part of the driveway behind the good car, so I called it quits and went inside for a beer. We sat around for a while, deciding whether or not we should work on the nursery (answer: No), and then showered and drove to my parents for some grub.

When I got there, they immediately put me to work shoveling their driveway. My father had already done the bulk of it, but they needed some more snow removed so that they could get the other car out. My father had one of those cool shovels with the funny bend in ’em to keep you from having to bend over so far and hurt your back. Even better, the blade had been coated with some kind of non-stick surface, so I made quick work of their drive. Good times.

Then we drank wine, ate chicken and dumplings (in my case sans boulettes) and went home to mull over the possibility of working on the nursery (we did not). Then: bed.

This morning, I had to sing a funeral (Edward Jefferson, former CEO of Dupont), which was quite lovely. Dr. Jefferson was an expatriate Briton, so we sang “Jerusalem” with the original Wm. Blake text. Also sung: “How Lovely Is Thy Dwelling Place” from Brahms’ Requiem, which we sing at every funeral, but which still tugs at the heart strings.

And now: finish up transposing a couple tunes from “Footloose” so that it can be sung by high school performers who value their vocal cords.