Southwestern Ontario is enjoying a few days of above-freezing weather with actual sunshine and a striking absence of dire warnings from the Ministry of Transport. Stratford's snowbanks have shrunk to ankle height and the streets feature large puddles where sewer grates are blocked with ice. It looks like March out there.

Due to its cellular structure, the widespread storm system had highly localized effects. Stratford, London and Chatham were socked in for days and Buffalo was buried neck deep, but Windsor received a gentle dusting and most of Toronto’s share was heavy rain. Driving west on the 401 on Tuesday, I noted the weather boundary east of Tilbury; fields and ditches blanketed with snow behind me around Chatham, and visible stubble and rushes toward Windsor.

The family visit went well except for the racket generated by four small children who had embraced the spirit of Saturnalia. Their grandfather (BIL Dave) and I rolled our eyes at each other and fled to mutual silence in the sitting room while the rest of the house resounded with shrieks and the thump of pursuing feet.

I’m back home now with the cats, enough chocolate and whisky to last months if not years, and four more new books. COVID has evidently left me less capable of long-haul driving; ambushed by tiredness, I had to rest at the half-way point on both the outbound and homeward journeys. As recently as a few years ago, a three-hour drive was a mere bagatelle hardly worthy of a coffee to go, but now it’s a challenge.

Today I shall count myself a success if I get the laundry done and vacuum the library carpet. The floors are covered with cat hair but the toilets are scrubbed and the house smells pleasantly of toast (not litterbox), so I’ve cleared the low bar that separates the lived-in look from a slattern’s slum. Yay me.