Since I am, today, apparently heading to a new record for visits in one day over the past decade of blogging (a record low, as it turns out) it seems a little like talking to myself, but I am going to retell yet another winter tale that is recorded in Slow Road Home, and whose memory has never left. The stories, alas, become a some bloggers’ way of seeing their shadows to confirm existence. I guess I’m one such blogger.Â
This is Â cautionary tale–one of those mishap-adventures we retell ourselves as a lesson, and sometimes, but not often enough, actually take to heart and change our risky ways.
So for them what is out there yet, and mostly for my own benefit, here is the most serious tale of a brush with death-on-ice. Really!
I will break this piece up into three, partly because I have a dozen hours of meetings in the next couple of days, and can have these installments in draft and ready to post in the early morning before I leave for a full day of folding-metal-chair buttitis. I just love committees, don’t you?
And I will dribble out a few ice image from this past week like the one above, prudently grabbed during the creek ice’s short existence: the warm rain of the past few days has done away with all the ice goblins, bells, and other nameless adornments I’ll show you.