Snowbound Tiny House

Not necessarily snowbound, more like surrounded. Outside it is still falling and there is about a foot on the ground. I’ve cleared the decks numerous times—and yet within minutes they are coated again. I awake to fondant smooth mounds banked against my Tiny House door.

My heater has held up. In fact, I keep it at about 62 and still my feet are warm in wool socks and my L.L. Bean slippers. I could be a cozy advertisement for a cute Vermont cabin—snowbound.

Not bounded by the snow—in fact, freed by it. Freed from work, routine, the necessities of life. It is too cold and breezy to do much outside, except shovel. I stay warm moving and lifting the snow, dashing back and forth between the Tiny House and the main house in my slippers, tracking in delicate patterns of snow pasted to the slipper tread. My daughter is tired of me tracking in snow. So am I. My door mat inside the French doors to my place is awash with boots, shoes, and the aforementioned slippers. Awash with unbounded, unbridled snow, the ceramic tile floor melty with it.

A pine candle on the little heater, a hot tea on the warmer as well, cake in a tin, a puzzle set up and ready to go. And, whenever I get bored, or feel stir-crazy from Snowbound Tiny House, I strap on my skis and step outside. I can si from the garage to the street then up and down a couple of times until overheated. Return to the Tiny House for TV, Christmas music playing on my speakers—and the puzzle.

Cozy snowbound.