Remember way back last November, when I shared the tale of our parking lot resurfacing at work? How I had erroneously assumed that our whole parking lot was getting a fresh coat of blacktop, and all we got was crumbly asphalt (and I use that term loosely, because it sure had the color of dirt in some places) poured into cracks and not even tamped down?
You may also recall how we had a snow day last week, on The Pony's birthday. A snow day that left plowed snow piled up along the end of that parking lot. So when we pulled in to park on Tuesday morning, I told The Pony, "Looks like they got almost as much snow here as we had at home. There's proof. They plowed the lot."
"I know," said The Pony. Dryly. "I can see chunks of the patch job in it. And look," he said as he stepped off the running board. "The cracks are empty."
Indeed, they were. And they will soon be deeper, what with nothing inside them, except for melted snow and rainwater to fill them and expand while freezing overnight.
Two days later, all the snow along the end of the parking lot had melted. Those chunks of never-congealed blacktop lay in an irregular row along the edge of the pavement where the snow had been, like till left behind by a glacier.
No charge for the science lesson. Val was feeling especially teachery this evening.