Sometimes you can stick to your schedule; sometimes your schedule eats you alive. This morning was a case of the latter. When I went to sleep yesterday with the shovels standing guard and ready for battle, the forecast called for nothing much from a storm that wasn't expected to deliver, at most, a dusting of snow. I would not, I thought as I went to sleep, get a chance to test my cardiac-rehabbed body against winter. However, when I got up, there was four inches of very powdery snow on the ground, no neighbor around to provide plow service—I am blessed to have really, really good neighbors—and I had to get on the road for a cardiac appointment in New Haven in the early afternoon. So I grabbed the shovels and got to work. To my absolute delight, I did absolutely fine. To my complete sorrow, I did not make time to take a single, solitary picture of the snow. The reward was being able to drive out of the driveway with ease. The penalty was having no visual record of the weather—nor of my mini-triumph.