A couple hours ago, I tried to shovel. After forcing open the back door, I trudged my way to the garage to retrieve the necessary tool. There’s about a foot of snow, though in places it has drifted much higher and spilled over the tops of my boots.
I made it to the garage (an attached garage would be nice, but rare in older homes) and discovered that the snow had drifted so high against it, that the lock was frozen solid. I chipped away at it, tried to open it and grumbled in the quiet night. After a bit of chipping, I was able to get the key in and very gingerly turn it, but the handle itself is frozen in position, and I’m assuming the door itself is frozen to the ground. (I’m very, very careful with that lock because a couple months back, Don broke the spare key in that lock, and I haven’t found a hardware store capable of cutting a replacement for the small, strangely shaped key.)
Yes, there is a side door to the garage, but Don happens to have both copies of that key in his possession. Oops.
Oh, well. It’s a sign that I’m supposed to stay in and enjoy this snowy evening. And besides, Don is always volunteering to help shovel. Well, at this point…