Updated: Sep 30
Give a dog a bone, but give a man a snow shovel (or if he’s over 80, a snow blower) because when it snows, come hell or high water (neither of which are
I did know enough to open the front door once (well, it was to let the dog out). I saw Ken shoveled the front steps. “Cool,” I thought, then went back inside for a phone conference. It didn’t occur to me to look a few feet beyond to where my car was half-buried in snow, and if I had seen it, I would have thought, “Oh, well. That’ll melt eventually.”
Late at night, Ken explained how he couldn’t believe I naturally wouldn’t go out and shovel and do assorted out tasks. “Guess I’m just a city girl, and you’re a country boy,” I told him.
“Then you have to get in touch with your inner country girl.” I tried my best by singing most of the words to “Green Acres” while he put his pillow over his head and begged me to stop. “You are my wife/ Goodbye, city life/ Snow acres, WE ARE HERE!/ da da da da da, da da!”