While my father was outside blissfully shoveling away at the pre-Christmas blizzard, I happened to look out just as the snowplow pulled up. Usually the plow does a cursory job on our unimportant dead-end street. In the past we've had to shovel as much as ten feet by thirty of road in order to regain access to our street and the mailbox.
On this day, however, I think the plowman was angling for a tip from my Dad. He carefully scooped away at the build-up blocking the end of our driveway.
That's Gabe, above, contemplating the pile of snow, rocks, and creeping thyme that doesn't usually live in the driveway.
We see the first hint of a truly exciting resculpting of the garden there, in the middle of the opposing bed, where a rock peeks out from the heaped snow. No rock should be there. And even at this stage, I'm pretty sure I know which rock got moved.
I'm glad that my father didn't think to tip the guy. Stay tuned. . .