Well, after my last post, where I said we shouldn't get too attached to things, someone tried to break into my house last night. At least, that's what I surmise from the two sets of boot prints going around the side of my house, stopping at the back door, and then taking off across the snow-covered garden and over the fence. The people tromped my lavender on their way and apparently took with them the snow shovel that was leaning beside the back door, because it's missing. Their tracks get lost in the general slush on the other side of the fence.
I suppose whoever it was didn't get the memo that we'd already been burgled a few years ago and there's nothing good left to steal. I never replaced all the jewelry (including wedding rings) that were stolen at that time. Our electronics are outdated and the most valuable thing I have is an 1869 edition of the Book of Mormon in the Deseret Alphabet, which I imagine would be difficult to pawn or mail in to Cash for Gold.
Still, I'm glad I had the deadbolt on. Maybe the dogs heard them and barked, frightening them off. I'll never know. Just as I'll never know what happened to my snow shovel. I admit I was attached to that snow shovel. It's hard to find a good tool, and when you do, you latch onto it. It was sturdy and efficient and shaped just right, with the perfect length of handle. It's annoying, especially since we're currently having a snow storm/ice storm, and a shovel would be handy about now.
The trees are encased in ice this morning, as if they'd been dipped in paraffin, and the branches sound like wind chimes against each other in the breeze. Lacy little icicles line every horizontal bar in the wrought-iron fence like some Victorian embellishment. It's pretty and magical and cozy. When the sun comes up it will be like being inside a diamond. Canadian winters are lovely, if you don't go out in them.