Monday, December 21, 2020. Baby, it’s cold outside and feels it. Although it’s only 41 degrees at 10 p.m. on Sunday night. A lot of the snow has melted but a lot of it hasn’t. The plows have pushed it up against the parked cars, the sparkling white has in many places turned to the dull, grungy grey thanks to the plows and tires and everything big city.
We’re in sorta lockdown here in New York, although not really.
The roads are quiet, like a weekend, but really an abandoned weekend. The restaurants are all mainly closed. Some are doing a little bit of business here and there. Outside. The Governor had decided that restaurant (outside) customers shouldn’t be allowed to use the rest rooms at these restaurant. Nice. How ‘bout the curbside, guv? Will that do? I mean, it is a dog’s life. Funny but not really.
However, back to reality: it’s the last week of the year. Not factually but actually. The last week is the week of re-runs, resting, escaping, recouping, relaxing, and maybe reading a good book. I’m reading an interesting book right now although I had no idea when I opened it; more later.
Besides the holidays are about to appear, we are in the typical days after the snowstorm. At first it was the celebration: the storm, the snowfall and winds and the next day when everything was pristine, crystal white, mirroring the heavens. It brings out the angel in a lot of us. For the time being.
Two days later, because of the sudden wintry cold, the snow was still here and now piled up, scrunched by plows up against the parked cars – many of which remain scrunched up four days later. JH and I were both separately out with our cameras. You can’t resist.
So today we decided in welcoming the last week of the year (sort of) with a walk around the park, as it were, or parks or anywhere in town when the snow’s still around (it could warm up in January; you never know anymore; it’s like everything else).