Right now, as I sit in the warmth of the house, my eighty-seven-year-old 'cross-the-street friend is out snowblowing the driveway of his seventy-year-old next-door neighbors. Oy.

He loves to work, but this is ridiculous. He loves to be outdoors, but this is over the top. He prides himself on his vigor and youth, but some activities should be out of reach.

Meanwhile, his loyal labrador housemate, April, is enjoying the snow. Everything he plows, she plods along as if to test the new pathways he's making. Occasionally, she bounds off into the deeper drifts of the yard, sinking up to her knees. But she always comes right back to his side. She seems to be keeping watch on his work, just to make sure he's OK.

6 HOURS LATER
He's out there again, in his regular brown trousers, cuffs stuffed into a pair of LL Bean boots (The Maine Hunting Shoe). Now he's going to do a quick shovel of the walk. Just to keep it from icing over. He may put some sand down, if it gets any worse. Where is April?

"APRIL! COME! ... Well, I'll hope to see you later... ," says he.

Which will be more than likely to happen, since I head over to his house around 5:30 every night. That's what time the Lounge opens.

And the Lounge is a whole 'nother story, let me tell you.