It’s been above freezing for a few days. Both the dog and I lingered on the porch yesterday; it was a sunny 37 degrees and we both thought it was warm.
I have stopped editing in bed, so I think that’s a good sign.
I’ve been going out of my mind with my own inability to get anywhere by foot. My neck of the woods has transformed from a nice, walkable town with a library, commercial district, and park all within easy distance to a startling place where cars appear out of snowdrifts, sidewalks have disappeared, and tongues of ice stretch across the edge of the road where I keep the snow-drift-colored dog close to me so neither of us get creamed by cars. It’s warm enough today that all the icy tongues are water, and I can see the top of my grill again. My dog could still walk over the fence without much effort, but fortunately he hasn’t realized that yet.
Meredith Hall’s Without a Map, which I finished last night, is a memoir that hopscotches through time. There are huge gaps in the narrative of her life that are not explained, but it’s okay because she is writing thematically. Her memoir spirals a little bit, and includes many disparate strands. This makes me hopeful that I can do the same with mine.
And as soon as I finish grading these FUCKING papers, I’m going to leave the house.