We are snowbound. The snow continues to deluge us. The wind is howling. We are huddled inside our ancient house. We failed to heed the forecasts and stock up. We are out of firewood. We have no Half & Half. We are low on toilet paper. Perilously low. We are low on floss, too. Also, I will soon need new razor blades. Will we be able to dig out by the time I need a shave? Did I mention the snow is deluging us? If the power goes out, I will have to hack through the snow to the garage, where the generator is still in its box. Of course, the moment you buy a generator, after suffering through repeated power outages, the power never goes out again. At the moment, we are subsisting on the popcorn that my brother-in-law sends every Christmas, delivered earlier this evening by the amazing UPS man who tromped through the snowdrifts to our door, dropped his cargo on the step, knocked weakly (we have no doorbell, this being 1797 construction), and staggered back to his truck on the street. He has an oxygen unit in his truck. Thank God. Our driveway is very long. I have taken pride in our long driveway. It’s a sign of status to have a long driveway. Until a night like this. Tonight I can imagine archaeologists tunneling their way through the snow to my house, following the asphalt, in hopes of finding a house at the end of the journey.
“Who knew the final Ice Age would start in the first week of 2014?”
“What’s that up there?”
“Nothing. A rocking chair, maybe.”
“Look! It’s a rocking chair, on the breezeway. Between the garage and the house.”
“And look! It’s the skeleton of a man, I would say 58, maybe 60, trying to get from the house to the woodpile in the garage.”
“How can you tell?”
“He’s stopping for a breather, in the rocking chair.”
We are snowbound. The snow continues to deluge us. The wind is howling. We are huddled inside our ancient house. We have gone through all the brother-in-law’s popcorn. We are grateful that his annual Christmastime gift was late this year; it saved our lives. To this point, at least. The Ipswich schools are closed. The garbage men have stopped coming. The curbside compost guys are snug in their beds.
We will die eating the last of the Christmas ham.
OK, just kidding. We’re fine. Good night.