Snowy Sunday

We've had a few Sunday snowstorms this winter, and I think they are wonderful. We're often inspired to head out into the white stuff for muffins and oversweetened coffee drinks from Espresso Royale (or in recent weeks, free tea lattés from Starbuck's, using coupons from my gym). Even Newbury Street is empty on snowy mornings, so we know we can get a table and a Times. We pulled on our boots this past Sunday and strolled along the Commonwealth Avenue mall. It was as tranquil and deserted as it looks:

We noticed that the lady authoresses of Women's Memorial were looking even more at a loss for words than usual. I like walking through this monument almost daily on my travels, but I think these three great writers deserved separate memorials rather than being lumped into one. Plus, they all look like they've got a bad case of writer's block (and, trust me, I know what that looks like).

Here's Abigail Adams, with snow filling in her eyes and framing her neck in a luxurious collar:

Here's Phillis Wheatley, wondering, perhaps where her quill is, under all that snow.

This was a good day to wrap up in an afghan, listen to football from the next room — and work. I have lots of freelance assignments at the moment, and I need to do my writing at night and on weekends because there's too much construction noise—including badly sung Abba tunes — right underneath mydesk during the week. How I relish the quiet of these snowy weekend days.