co-conspirators in the league of extraordinary stubbornness

To the elderly gentleman with a snowblower who saw me slip and, having ascertained that I was okay, said not one word about my being the only soul out here in the blowing snow, or about my choice of footwear, or about the fact that dusk was falling, but who promised to salt that area and who looked up from chiseling free his front stoop, upon my return, to nod resolutely toward the patch of sidewalk and announce firmly, “Fixed!”:

I salute you.

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