Knocks and shocks

It’s the third day of double-digit subzero (Celsius) temps.  But, on Fenwick Street, whatever it is that if flowing at the bottom of the pit continues to rush with all the liquid noise of Niagara.

Early yesterday morning, I was sitting at my desk, in the southwest corner of the house, when  a great cracking sound traveled through the room.  Had I been in California, I would have known it was an earthquake.  But here?  I still don’t know what it was.  I do know that it wasn’t what it felt like.

Four hours east of here, Fred is working on getting his name on his first lease.  That’s a different kind of shock to my system, and I don’t mean financial (It sounds like the student housing market there is on a par with campus housing).  But in line with stories of walking uphill through snowstorms in both directions to and from school as a child, I hear the descriptions of the digs on offer for him with historic envy:  my first independently rented place, in Hollywood, came complete with two bedrooms for the three of us and hot and cold running cockroaches.  He’s bearing up bravely at the thought that the flat he’s got on hold has no clothes dryer.

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