It was the Sunday before Giftmas, and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
That’s because the mice moved out this weekend. They left through the disused chimney. They were carrying little Samsonite suitcases, and I distinctly heard them utter the phrases “…white shit…“, and “…moving to fucking Florida.”
Here’s the view from our kitchen window as of five minutes ago:
That’s my minivan, parked in the turnaround spot near the bottom of the driveway. It’s been parked there for the last four days because I’ve not been able to get up the driveway to park in my usual spot next to the house. This is after snowblowing the driveway, sanding it with ash, and having the plow guy clear a path to the house after the snowblower snapped its auger shaft. (We have a gravelled driveway, and occasionally I pick up rocks with the auger. This rock was just big enough to get wedged under an auger blade and jam up the works to where the engine torque just cracked the auger shaft like an octogenarian’s hipbone.)
Oh, well. The snowblower is under warranty, the repair guy will be here on Wednesday, and the plow guy is scheduled to come and dig us out after the storm ends. (We’re supposed to get another foot or so today.) We have wood heat, I stocked up on eggnog and rum, the fridge and freezer are full, and the kids are warm and healthy.
If you’re looking to buy a house in northern New England, just make sure that it either has a paved driveway, or it sits close enough to a public road that’s cleared by your municipality. Under no circumstances should you purchase a home that sits a hundred and fifty feet back from a public road, and only features an uneven gravel driveway on a five-degree slope. You will do fine most of the year, but you’ll be parking at the bottom of that driveway a lot once the snow starts falling in earnest.
But hey: that’s life in the snow belt. Eggnog with rum for breakfast, anyone?