It’s snowing. We’re both home writing–Linda in her second floor office facing the road, me in my basement office. Vaguely I hear Linda’s voice saying something about a car in our front yard. Pulling my mind out of the 19th century, I call out, “What?” “A car–there’s a car in our front yard.” And indeed there was–a young woman, driving her SUV way too fast for the slippery conditions, hit a truck and ended up clipping our magnificent cedar tree before stopping in our front yard. No one was hurt–and we hope the tree is OK(& grateful that it prevented her from careening into our living room). She insisted she wasn’t driving too fast. A witness said she was. The guy she hit said she was. The police officer said she wouldn’t give her a ticket for speeding ’cause she didn’t witness the accident; she’d let the “insurance company sort it out.” I was glad that I had been too preoccupied to move our cars from the back end of our long driveway to the front; our habit when it’s snowing so that we don’t have to shovel the whole thing on teaching days. And that noone was walking on sidewalk. And that Sophie wasn’t playing in the front yard. But now that I’m distracted, guess I should go shovel.
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