The Sidewalks (and Driveways) of Death

It's a new month. A short month. Just 24 days away from what I consider Kinda Sorta Almost Spring in Bermtopia: The blessed month of March.

But in the meantime, during this artist fog bank also known as February I have a new nemesis: Freezing fog.

Never underestimate the power of freezing fog and gravity.

It turns sidewalks and driveways into unpredictable roads to hell.

As a daily dog walker, Winter is not my kindest season. My already questionable dignity is surgically and systematically shredded with diabolical precision almost every day when I set out with Ben, slipping and sliding and clambering over the obstacles created by the same eff-ing five inches of snow, arrived in December, melted and frozen, rinsed and repeated several times over, present every morning.

But freezing fog. Ah yes, freezing fog. It means it's warming up during the day. But not so much at night. Freezing fog -- if you're lucky enough to live in snow-free zones -- is black, invisible ice. It coats everything.

You don't know it till you've encountered it. Up close and personal. Case in point: Friday -- I was strolling along nicely with Ben and with just one foot step found myself sitting Indian-style in the middle of a sidewalk. No bones broken, no blood shed, just one gray dog, ears back, tail down, circling around, sniffing frantically.

"Oh heavenforbetsy. Get up. Before the neighbors see. We look like idiots."

It's at this point you become a connoisseur of concrete. Our city fathers of the 1920s, 30s and 40s knew the dose -- a proper combination of grit and concrete for reasonable traction.

The "new" concrete -- the stuff many neighbors use to replace driveways and tree root-infested sidewalks is a light gray skating rink. It basically shouts, 'YOU'RE GOIN' DOWN, FOOL. YOU'RE GOIN' DOWN."

So you have a choice: Tentatively portage across a Driveway of Death or tackle the relentless snow berms, crawl to the street, a broken human being, and take your chances.

Decision made, safely upright on the street. . . . that's when you watch your dog do His Business, under a neighbor's living room picture window, accessible only by a Sidewalk and Driveway of Death.

Thank you, Ben. Thank you very much.

You're welcome!

On top of the world

There ARE certain advantages to living at the top of a hill as I do. . . IF you can overlook the inevitable hair-raising, pee-in-your-pants, white-knuckle drives sliding up and down The Hill to work in the winter.

I can. Most of the time.

This morning's walk with Ben is one reason why.

While lower Bermtopia sits shrouded in thick, dense fog -- always a problem at the end of January -- we on The Hill usually wake to clear (or almost) clear skies that slowly fade from brilliant cobalt into dreamy shades of pale, frosty pink and lavender as the sun climbs in the east.

This morning, instead of the park, Ben and I headed north-northwest into the neighborhood. We like to keep tabs on who still has Christmas decorations up (don't get me started) and who hasn't cleaned up after last week's snow and ice storm. We always pay our regards to the chickens kept at the house on the corner of 18th and Madison, then turn around and walk back up the hill to home.

And here's what we saw:



Yes.

I have to say.

I'm feeling on top of the world.