We are due to report back to Newmentia on Thursday. A couple of the less-fortunate districts return Wednesday. Sucks to be them. Or not. Because I just saw on the news that they will be out due to road conditions. The Pony's hope springs eternal. Our district neighbors two of those who are having a snow day.
The town roads and county roads around Hillmomba are clear. Our hilly mile of gravel road is packed ice. Parts of the blacktop road out to the county road are also packed ice. T-Hoe has no trouble in 4W HIGH. It's the oncoming cars who will be his downfall. Cars without four-wheel drive, or even front-wheel drive. Cars that can slip in an instant and slam into T-Hoe, or get crossways in his path. That is what I don't like about getting out until the roads are perfectly clear.
It doesn't stop me from heading to town for my 44 oz. Diet Coke, though. Let's be reasonable.
Farmer H has been driving his gas-hog Ford F250 with the 4WD. The back roads could host a hockey tournament. Oh. If the NHL wasn't locked out of competition, that is. The back roads could host the Charlie Brown gang for a skatefest. I'm sure they could find a suitable pitiful tree along the right-of-way. The back roads could be leased as a training course for the Ice Road Truckers. The back roads could host a reunion show for Bear Grylls, Les Stroud, Man and Woman of Man Woman Wild, and that hippy dippy barefoot dude and his military partner from Dual Survival. The back roads could just thaw out already and await the next snowstorm.
Our two hairy ladies, Juno and Ann, are cohabiting the insulated doghouse filled with cedar shavings on the back porch, just outside the kitchen door. That way they are warm and out of the weather, and can keep track of our comings and goings, and snarf up any scraps that are tossed their way. Tank the beagle has moved from the chicken house to the middle of the haypile meant to feed the goats. He burrows into the center and waits for Farmer H to bring him pieces of chicken strips left over from Christmas Day. Like tonight. Never mind that there are three doghouses on the wraparound Mansion porch. By day, all romp in the snow and bark at other dogs barking. Then they lay in the sun on whichever section of porch is exposed. They follow Farmer H into the heated barn as he works on his projects. Juno brings assorted toys to be tossed every time somebody exits the Mansion. Her fur is a warm muff for my exposed hands. She's a regular furnace, that one.
We have all grown accustomed to the life of leisure.