UplandMoor of Sleet

Everything is melting today. I hear the constant dripping at the eaves. However, there is plenty of wet, soggy, slippery, icy white stuff heaped around. The plows came by last night and plowed us in. The Sparrowhawk went out and shoveled the ice chunks out of the driveway so we could get out to go to church. There he met our neighbor, who was using his snowblower a few days ago, and pitying the old people (us) shoveling themselves out by hand. Then his snowblower broke down, and now he's back to the shovel as well. Not that I'm feeling smug or anything. I do feel smug about us being retired and with chronic ailments, but we can still SHOVEL OUR OWN DRIVEWAY GODDAMMIT. Cause that's how we roll in Michigan. However, the Sparrowhawk has started hinting that he understands how people might just start thinking about moving away. It creeps up on you gradually, polar vortex by polar vortex. Not yet, though. Not yet.

Music went well at church. We were down to a skeleton crew--just the oboist, the flutist, the bass, the keyboardist, and me. This was cozy, and we play well together. The oboist again complimented me on my intonation. She said that she's never afraid to double with me, because she knows I'll make it sound good. I said that was the nice thing about a stringed instrument--you can make instant adjustments. But she said that you have to have the ear for it, and some people don't. We played a couple of things with five flats today, and that is All The Flats, so this actually meant something.

We're watching the Superbowl--albeit in our own way. The Sparrowhawk has been mostly watching it, while putting some superfluous books online to sell. I'm taking an occasional peek and wincing and yelling "Stop it, you're gonna hurt that poor boy!" Grandmothers shouldn't watch pro football.