It was an ugly storm--snow and rain and wind for more than 24 hours straight. The gale kept whipping clots of snow into the house--bam, bam. Tom said the noise was like hippos on the roof, and I said it was like hippos playing basketball on the roof. As you've gathered, T did not end up driving to work yesterday, and a good thing too, as there were trees in the roads and cars overturning on the highway and anyway no power at his worksite. So we stayed home together and listened to the hippos. I edited for most of the day, and he mucked around with his own desk stuff, and the power flickered but did not fizzle, and the wind howled in the chimney, and we were snug.

This morning the neighborhood is smeared in slush, though  I expect it will melt rapidly. People living just a little further inland got much higher snow totals, but ours was half rain. As far as I can tell, there's not significant local tree damage, just six inches of slithery muck. I've seen worse spring storms . . . or at least more depressing aftermaths. This one will be history soon.

Today, after I figure out how to drag the recycling bin through the slush, I'll be back at my desk, trying to finish at least one editing project before we embark on our holiday. I've got my plans set for the high schoolers, and now I need to pull together my various vacation obligations: reading through outlines for the teaching conference sessions, working on a new editing project, copyediting the Monson kids' finished pieces . . . What is the definition of vacation anyway? Maybe just "sleeping in a different bed and not waking up to an alarm."

Well, we will have fun. Our trips to the cottage are always sociable--sharing dinners every night with our friend, plenty of ocean air, bird watching and cloud watching and drinking slightly too much red wine. The eclipse scene in Monson will be entertaining, and we've got dinner reservations at the Quarry for afterward--our first time eating Lulu's food in its James Beard Award-winning glory. All of the hiking trails will be snow and slush and mud, but maybe the sun will shine, maybe the loons will wail. Something will beg for our attention.