Quote of the Day

In the morning the snow is knee-deep and the temperature has dropped below zero. On Moose Country Radio, the gap between George Jones and Loretta Lynn songs grows wider as the announcer recites an expanding list of postponements and cancellations. School has been shut down. Several basketball games have been rescheduled. Over at the turkey factory in Barron, the evisceration team is starting two hours late. Outside, the morning is filled with the sound of snow blowers and the flat scrape, scrape of snow shovels. As we dig out, we greet one another with mittened waves and puffs of breath, cheerful as kids playing hooky. We lean to our shovels with stoic determination, secretly delighted that in the age of heated seats and convenience-store cappuccino we can still pretend to be pioneers as we strike out for milk and eggs up the block at the Gas-N-Go. The air is sharp with cold. With every inhalation, our nose hairs snap together like magnets and freeze. they thaw and separate on the exhale. We tromp around in our big boots, imagining we survive on pemmican and hardtack. The illusion doesn't last. the plows are out, and by mid morning the four-lane is whooshing with people who dared not risk the deadly trip to work or school, but now, given a day off, will drive forty miles to the mall.

- from Truck, a Love Story

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