I stretched out on the sofa under a blanket to finish a novel (The Ninth Hour by Alice McDermott, featuring nuns). Possum voluntarily abandoned my husband to nap on my arm. Bliss. (He also read the novel by osmosis, of course.)
By 5 o'clock, we had cabin fever and bundled up for a walk. Very few neighbors had the same foolhardy idea. It was still snowing hard and the wind was strong. Aside from plows, shovelers, and dog walkers, we had the neighborhood mostly to ourselves. No cars were parked on Commonwealth Avenue and there were so few cars that I could pretend I was back in the 1890s. Newbury Street was empty of cars and people, too.
Here's what we saw:
Mr. Sarmiento was having difficult bad day:
It was not like being inside a snow globe — too windy!
Mushrooms at Cafeteria on Newbury Street:
It probably looked like this around 1900s:
Samuel Eliot Morison was hit from his starboard side only:
Aside from plows and shovels, it was as quiet as it looks:
We walked home right down the middle of Marlborough Street because the sidewalks weren't cleared:
After this photo, my phone battery died from the cold. We were cold and soaked when we got home, and the sofa looked better than ever.
The snow fell through the night: