Professional tobagganing.


Oof, took two days off of writing. Great result from that writing class of mine, eh? Hope my three readers had a lovely Christmas Day.

Mine was quiet and resulted in a lot of leftovers, so that’s a victory of sorts, though I do sometimes miss the holiday enthusiasm of children and crazy relatives. But only sometimes. I also had a faux migraine (sinus pressure causing halos and other vision woes) by the end of the day and watched, and was disappointed by, The Dark Knight Rises, and ate too much cheese. Swings and roundabouts.

Today’s one of those days when I’m reminded of a story our mother used to tell us about Spruce Hedge, a hamlet of, maybe, a dozen houses just outside of Calabogie, on the Madawaska River.

One year (in the early 1970s, from what I remember), after a torrential blizzard that left the region buried, an ad appeared in the classifieds of the paper (possibly even the ‘big city’ one, The Renfrew Mercury, but more likely an even localler weekly rag) in the lost & found section: ‘MISSING: One snowplow in Spruce Hedge. If spotted, please contact…’


Ottawa has had two reasonably big dumps of snow this week. I have yet to see a plow today, nor even heard on on a nearby main road, which is ridiculous. Yes, it’s a holiday week, so city services are running behind, but really? Really?

On the bright side, I wore snowpants to work and am now a convert to being even weirder-looking to the ‘normals’. Having dry socks and trousers at work is a luxury for so many at this time of year. I’m used to being a weirdo, anyway, so what’s the harm, eh? The retro swishiness is just a bonus.

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