It occurred to me that rather than sitting in comfort reading the newspaper, Riley beside me on the loveseat, I could be outside, shovelling the new-fallen snow. Shovelling at the back had already taken place several times during the day, and it was my husband who'd done it, as usual. Despite that he had wrenched his back somehow, several days earlier.

We'd been out in mid-afternoon for a ravine walk and were overwhelmed as we so often are, at the wonderland aspect of the woods freshly wreathed in soft, new snow. It was a lengthy ramble in the woods, as we were loping leisurely along; no point whatever not taking advantage of the milder weather and fully enjoying it, since we knew that another January cold snap was on its way. It was heralded by the wind blasting out on the street as it had been most of the day. But in the ravine all was calm, barely a whisper of wind.

We could hear the Pileated woodpecker busy searching for grubs and creating a mound of new thick wood slivers soon to be covered by snow. We could see squirrels nowhere, imagining them cowering in their nests, reluctant to venture out on a Sunday when people often stroll through the woods, unlike weekdays, with their dogs eager to the chase, and the squirrels vulnerable in the new depths of fresh snow. We could, however, see more than ample evidence of their having been out and about nonetheless, with their little paw-patterns left on the rails of the bridges and elsewhere.

When we arrived back home, the atmosphere was redolent of the green pea soup I'd put on to cook before we'd left. My husband headed downstairs to his workbench and I settled on the loveseat, Riley anxious to catch a substantial nap before dinnertime. Our return home from a ravine walk always signals to him that it's time for me to settle with the newspapers and he to settle comfortably beside me.

But this time I felt restless, and then decided that I could steal myself quietly outside and do the shovelling of the driveway where the all-day snow had accumulated. So I dressed and let myself out the front, knowing that if I went out the back my husband would hear the sliding glass doors and rush upstairs to prevent me from exerting myself. It was just growing dusk, the wind had died down, and the air felt fresh and it felt invigorating to use a snow shovel once again, it had been so long since I had.

Dark fell quickly, and before I knew it, the driveway was shovelled clear; no impressive feat given the delicate, light nature of the fresh snow. Then came the walkways, the porch, the front steps. And then onto the walkway leading from the front to the back, and the backyard walkways to be cleared to enable Riley to trot about without having to do so with snow reaching past his short little legs. The deck was the last, and just as I was halfway through it, the light in the breakfast room came on and there was my husband, opening the sliding doors and anxiously asking me what I thought I was doing?

Enjoying myself, I responded. And said I'd be right in, when he invited me back into the house directly, saying he would go right out and finish up the shovelling, that he didn't want me doing it, and get inside where it was warm. I was warm, and feeling pretty good.

I completed my mission, went back indoors and settled down once again on the loveseat with the newspapers, Riley beside me.