He couldn't even see the mountain because of fog, but he could hear a truck shifting gears and ascending the blacktop road toward the mine. Picking up the last three pieces of last summer's split maple, he noticed they were muddy and green, but he judged that they would burn. Now with no cordwood and no electricity, if the weather did not warm up fast, he would have yet another problem. There is something about a crummy life that perpetuates itself. Problems and bad luck multiply.
Depressions are harder to shake off.
Something inside you grabs hold, and, no matter how hard you try, it just brings more shit and trouble at every turn in the road. If only things had been different. He was 49 now and he was weary. With the exception of old Perley Watson, who had stopped by to square up for some chores Vernon had done on his woodlot, Vernon had not seen another human being in ten days. Nor had Vernon changed his underwear in ten days.