Tuesday, January 20, 2009

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 latt├ęs 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.

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