"Nah," I reasoned, "I can do it in the morning."
Which is why I was in my pyjamas, cursing loudly as I fumbled into jeans and a hat and grumbled my way into my coat at 0730 today, with the sun not clear of the treeline and my ear hearing phantom diesel engines a block away. Or two blocks. Or maybe it was my imagination, but you never know when those guys are going to come, and so I'd better drag the cans to the curb.
The walk was slippery with fresh ice, where meltwater from the roof had refrozen overnight. With the sun technically up, the temperature had crept into official double digits at 10°F, but the wind chill stubbornly held at -1°F.
I cussed again as I nearly took a spill on the ice, but the cherry on the icing of the cake of the whole procedure was when I reached the Devil's Strip along the road, where fresh snow and the concomitant plowing since last week had erased the little trampled path I'd created for the cans. I taught the neighbor's dog a couple new words as snow overtopped first one, then the other hastily-slipped-on unlaced boot while I bulled the cans through the drifts to the curb.
The work done, I had to note that it was kinda pretty out, with the blush of dawn in the clear sky.
|The southeast corner of the house sports a three-foot icicle...|
|...while Bobbi's rain chain on the northeast corner caused a whimsical ice pillar to form, connecting the roof to the ground.|
|Huck clearly thought I was nuts, being on the cold side of the window.|
*This is where my readers in New Hamster and Alaska and Sweden and Canada tell me about how at this time of year they have to hike two miles uphill each way just to see a sunbeam at noon...