A phone call:
Neighbor D: Hiya. It’s dark. And cold. And it’s supposed to snow.
Me: I’ll go if you go.
She: Ok. Give me a half hour.
In a half hour, a strange beast shows up on my backdoorstep. She has a ski mask, covered by two hoods. Her glasses poke forth, but it is the only part of her face showing. She wears an orange reflective vest over her many layers. On her feet she wears orange neon yaktrax.
I’m pulling on my own, which are neon yellow. I don an equally scary-looking ski mask and equally geeky reflective vest and we venture out.
It’s 630 pm, and the thermometer reads 22 F. A snow/sleet mix falls, and the wind periodically blows it into our faces, which elicits a chorus of “Ow! OW! OW!” from us, as it feels like we’re being stabbed by mini icicles.
We loop the village, dodging the one or two cars that are out on the unplowed roads. We get a couple honks, and we imagine the rude and derisive comments drivers are making about us.
“Damn crazy freak-ass Parish runners.”
“Those people have lost their senses, clearly. Do they not see the BLIZZARD??”
The short three miles fortifies us, though. It proves that the elements are no match for us.
This morning: snow days all around. The snow continues to fall. The plows are unable to keep up so far.
I’m waiting for the phone to ring.