There was the winter when everything froze; Christmas Eve, and the whole yard was ice. I remember, because of how it crunched when I stepped, depending on how much below was soft snow, a coating of sheer ice over buildings and trees, across driveway and lawn. We kept close to the house, if we went out at all, and as much as I liked it, I didn’t envy him the walk to the barn, whether he wanted or not.
He was always worried the pipes would freeze, and sometimes they did, cutting water off from the house; the well just behind the barn, and pipes that came in through the underground from one end of the yard to the next.
house: a (tiny) memoir
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