Today’s morning walk was a moderate version of the crummiest kind of New England winter weather…temps around freezing, “winter mix” falling, cars encrusted, a little dicey under foot. Public Works (headed by a high school classmate who held our discus record, since broken but not by much) does a good job on the roads, but the drives through the cemetery don’t get the same kind of attention. At the bottom of that slope, there is a depression that tends to catch and hold water. I was on my own this morning, but my usual walking partner, Paul, and I have christened it “Lake H,” in honor of my daughter, who as a young runner got immense pleasure out of the otherwise illicit act of splashing messily through it. The caretakers have filled it in a bit with crushed stone, but it still becomes something of a pond when it rains. Not paying attention this morning, I managed to walk right into the middle of it, and immediately felt my walking shoes let in what felt like every icy drop they could hold. When you’re running, or even walking with some purpose, you don’t care much about this sort of thing. When you’re gathering wool while spending iPod time on a tropical island with Jack Aubrey and Steven Maturin, you do. Killick! Killick there!

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