snowy days

Across the Twin Cities, snow is heaped in piles as tall as houses. The roads have grown narrow, encroached on either side by towering boulevards. Cars inch across the city and back again. I have taken to driving with a shovel riding shotgun so I can leap out and clear a path through freshly plowed mounds when necessary. It’s Minnesota. It’s winter.

Stella was home from school both Monday and Tuesday because of the snow and sub-zero temperatures. She was thrilled beyond description. We swapped childcare with friends. Forts were built. Movies were watched. Popcorn was eaten.

It all makes me want to pull out the crock-pot and fill the house with meaty goodness, then curl up on the couch with a book and read all day. I’m currently caught up in Maggie O’Farrell’s The Hand that First Held Mine, which contains two alternating stories—one set in postwar London, one in present-day London. I’ll write more about this book as I make my way through it (if I get that time on the couch), but I’m excited that I’ve discovered O’Farrell’s writing. Her prose is exquisite.

So I’m reading. And in those few hours of the night when Zoë isn’t flipping around next to me, I’m sleeping better. The Christmas tree is up, sparkling in our living room. And I’m back to work on the memoir—a little tweaking based on the insightful comments of my fabulous agent. Things are a little easier. And soon, soon, the days will be getting longer rather than shorter. Oh, I realize that winter will go on forever this year, but at least there will be light, a little more light.