Cabin fever drove us out of our apartment to Jon's folks in Lincoln County. The drive home was eye-opening. It was like driving through a war-zone, in some parts. Branches were scattered everywhere. Entire trees leaned over the roads, creating obstacle courses that the truck weaved around in its rumbly way. Ice clinked against the windows when the truck nudged ice-encrusted branches.
Some houses looked pretty, others were completely obscured by all the branches that had come down in the yard and on top of them--it looked like a winter jungle. We passed one house, a stately white manor house with black shutters, surrounded by trees groaning under the weight of ice and snow, but not one had surrendered yet. They no longer looked like trees, but statutes. Black trunks punctuated the startlingly white scene, interspersed with the cold glitter of ice, and the house itself looked ghostly, as if it was barely hanging on to its semblance. It made me think of the White Witch's lair (don't tell the owners that).
I told Jon, "It's like Narnia: always winter, never Christmas."