Driving’s tough. A lot of all-season radials are crying on off-ramps. Fools! Even the good drivers stay put -a sensible caution-wanting to avoid the panicked drivers and the silly little all-season radials.

Nevertheless,  it’s a Snow Day. Or, as a five year old friend says: you don’t gotta go day. In the distance, I hear the rumbling of thousands of little feet dancing a dance of freedom. Across the street, little plastic snow shovels are being wielded like weapons. The kids have beaten their snow-ploughshares into swords.

The snow’s lighter than confectioners’ sugar. It won’t stick for a snow man and it won’t keep still for snow angels. It has no balls. There are times when it seems to be sighing more than falling.

And it keeps coming. Our front yard could be the set for Beckett’s “Happy Days” except that the pile is snow -not dirt – and if I were to try to climb it I would plunge to the bottom instead of hanging desperately to its side and sorry for the run-on sentence, but I have no grammar check on this computer.

Other observations on Snow Day: snow suits are cuter, come in better colours, and are less constricting; if they are the same height, you cannot tell one child from another – even your across the street neighbours’ kids; it’s easier to shovel powdery snow 40 times – even all night long, if necessary – than to wake to two feet of slightly melting snow; it’s easier to get rid of  a two foot melting snow pile than the glacier it forms in a Halifax snap-freeze; the guy down the street with the only snowblower on the block a selfish dink; people look very different wearing Russian Red Army hats; plastic bags are not good snow boots; even Oprah Winfrey is interesting after 11 snow shovelling trips and a vodka martini; All- Season tires, in the wrong hands, are very stupid.

We can learn a lot on Snow Day. Except about that the guy down the street. We knew that.

The day came. The day went.  All my attention to my superstitious routines seemed to have worked. After changing my strings on Saturday, every scrap of string debris was gathered and discarded. My greatest superstition is that all the leftovers from a string change must go at the same time.  That is, if I find a string end, or a used string or a wrapper on the floor after I have made the trip to the garbage can, a sudden anxiety strikes me. It takes some time to let this go, if, in fact, it ever does go.

My other superstition involves eyeliner, but is is too complicated to relate here and/or too silly.

The day came. The day went. Soundcheck – setting up the sound system to best amplify the sound in the room and for the folks on stage –  was a breeze. Usually it takes more time, mostly because my waffling and still not really knowing what I’m listening for. I use language like: Ummm…it sounds muddy.  Or: it sounds bright. Muddy and bright are the only terms I have at my disposal. Well, not so. I do know: too loud and not loud enough. I rely on those around me to assure me that things sound ok, that nothing more can be done, that I should stop talking anytime now.

As an aside, there was an instance recently in which a sound man lost his way with the sound equipment and it resulted in A Big Snit. Not from our side of the microphones, I’m obliged to add. A Big Snit is not desirable at a soundcheck. We took the high road, even after he screamed “This is ridiculous. I’m starting all over”. Of course, that meant we were starting all over, too. Also undesirable.

Back to the Carleton (to which, if you’re anywhere near Halifax, you must go). Without burdening you with the details of each song and every interaction, I can say it went well. I believe this was because of the generous audience (the wine, perhaps? the Guinness?) and the great sound. My accompanist, Jamie Robinson, smoothed things out, too.

Just wanted to report: no Big Snits; no lost strings; no eyeliner slip-ups. With the exception of the slight shoe/chair rung mishap, the day came and the day went. And it was a good day.