Like clockwork, I awoke at four in the morning on January 7, 1997 and looked through the sliding glass door in our bedroom. The yardstick Glenn had jabbed into our snow-covered deck was no longer visible—it had snowed hard through the night, and it was still snowing.
Glenn had been routinely shoveling our front deck and the long flight of steps leading to it, but he’d purposely neglected the side deck. Now that the yardstick was buried, it was time to relieve the structure of its frosty tonnage. I’d expressed concern about it the day before because roofs were collapsing in and around north Idaho. Our roof was slanted and made of tin, so the snow would systematically slide off when the stress from the load became too much. Our side deck was a different story; it had been undermined by carpenter ants, and with the weather offering no sign of reprieve its awaiting peril seemed imminent.
I wasn’t looking forward to the twenty-five mile drive to Sandpoint on this morning. My espresso café, “Jumpin’ Joe’s,” opened at six-thirty, and I suspected the highway department had not yet plowed the roads. It had been an extremely harsh winter, and the overnight accumulation had added another foot of snow to the existing four to five feet that already blanketed the entire county.
I glanced at Glenn, still sleeping soundly, and I grudgingly rolled out of bed and plodded off to the shower. I probably should have gone outside first and brushed off the snow engulfing my Subaru, but the thought of venturing into the cold was not at all appealing. I hoped Glenn wouldn’t mind doing it for me.
I lingered under the showerhead, soaking in the warmth and thinking about the day’s agenda, never dreaming that Tuesday would forever change my tomorrows.
