That looks like a nightmare in so many ways: the incline, the ice, the cartilage in my knees, the narrow passage, no room for strollers or wheelchairs, not to mention the industrial factory pollution in the air. Not the type of setting that demands a rousing rendition of “Oh, What A Beautiful Morning!”
Never catch a sister unawares: the first ministerial lesson to be learned. Perhaps most brothers were at office jobs while Dr. Briggs made his daily round of pastoral visits to (mostly female) parishioners. To prevent a surprise visit, he would park his sweet 1930s ride in front of each home and faux tinker with the car to give housekeepers time to tidy up. That’s a thoughtful, if not exhausted, parson. It’s the little things that make a difference.
And on a purely aesthetic note, isn’t this a gem of a literal window inside the life of a person in 1941? So warm and serene in the home, so placid and white with snow outside. How comforting it must have been to know someone thought enough of you to drive to see you each day. Even a kind word from a milk man or mailman must have made the day of someone confined to his home. I have read that as you age, you begin to feel invisible, and just a gesture of conversation could serve to validate your existence. I raise my coffee mug to each of you today, validating your worth and purpose in existence!