That's Not Supposed to Happen...

I woke up this morning and saw this:

Maybe this is a normal site for many of you to wake up to but not for us here in Maberga (that’s the name of the little area we live in…don’t bother looking on a map, you won’t find it…population 2 – my husband and me. There are a lot of neighbors with land up here, but “only animals live here”…and Americans, apparently). In fact, last year when it snowed everyone exclaimed great Italian exclamations and said, “it hasn’t snowed up here for 20 years!”. Yes, it did snow last year too, just once but it snowed. The first time in 20 years, so it would seem. I wouldn’t know about that, this is only my second winter here. So far I’m two for two.

Perhaps you’re thinking, “geez, Lynn, relax. It’s just a little snow.” And you would be right to think this, it’s just that it’s not supposed to happen here and well, we aren’t exactly equipped for it. This is what it looks like now:


See those tire tracks? They are on our road which is about 2 inches wider than those tracks and about as steep as, well, can you see off in the distance there? Yeah, it’s a bit like that. We won’t be seeing any salters or sanders up here, no visits from the pick-up-driving-friend-with-the-plow- attachment coming to help.

So, what’s a stranded gal supposed to do when she can’t get off the hill? Exactly what I would have done if I could have gone out…I finished these:

Cute, aren’t they? (yarn? Knit Picks’ Pallett. Pattern? Basic sock)

I then I worked on this…


That’s a bit of an experiment. I’ll let you know how it turns out.

I also made some pasta sauce but, frankly, I’m hoping it will taste better than it looks – sorry, no picture.

A couple neighbors just stopped by. They came up to check on the animals…all of us. They said, “and David? Did he go to work? He won’t make it up the hill in that flower truck he drives!” (that wasn’t some kind of Italian dig at the masculinity of my husband’s vehicle. We works at a flower export company and actually drives a flower truck.) Won’t he be happy to have a big pot of appetizing sauce waiting for him after he walks home. The socks are mine.