Chilly Week.

On the north sides of buildings, the snow hangs on. And up against, but not in, the French drain out back. And in and among what's left of the construction debris. High, thin clouds this morning say the fancies are right, that another system's working its way usward, that the freezing rain with no accumulation of freezing rain ought to get here overnight and tomorrow. Another system, like this last one, where if the freeze line's north of us, we're probably fine, and if it's south of us, we're snowed in for half a week, and if it's on us, every tree between here and the park will be leaned over or dropping limbs or otherwise engaged in explosions small and medium. Here's hoping for rain, I guess.

Cold week dialed up. When we hit the low-to-mid forties, you're going to want to step out onto the sidewalks to enjoy that. At night: thirties when it's sleeting and freezing, twenties when it's clear. I did find our stolen daffodils and bluebells poking up out of the ground yesterday, so that's one sign of March hanging out there. What would help—what would help with me pining for warmer weather, for green leaves—is if we could just get the snow and ice to melt off the pansy beds out front.

Church bell ringing out back means it's time once again for another exciting episode of I Am Close To The End Of That Book And Still Might Not Have Plot. Tune in next time, when we'll see our hero looking at his woodstove and thinking, how did this happen? Didn't this building used to work? Maybe I should have left all the spiders and mold and rot and cracking storm windows and rusting rustproof aluminum siding. Maybe that's where the mojo was.