Saturday night and I was ready for sweet retirement, as signaled by the flannel jammie bottoms that are my finish line, after a weekend day of boots and jeans.

And no freakin’ snow shovels. For the first time in 14 days, I didn’t touch one. Hit it in the sun Friday afternoon, heaving some slush atop the mounds that tower over my tiny front yard, so that they dribbled and rolled to the sidewalk canyon carved through the middle of the grass-patch doormat of the Hut at the Crest of West.

So this day, by God, with the first melt in two weeks, I threw a few shovel-fulls into the street, and if the po-lice came and accused me of fouling the public domain, I would have noted the presence of those snow mountains behind me, built one shovel at a time.

Thus, I have no right to claim soreness this night, though at my age I feel entitled to the privilege in perpetuity for all the years of labor that got me here.

Among the worldly activities for which I plan to seek final tabulation on the first day of the rest of my life in whatever a day is on the far side of that great divide, in addition to everything I’ve hauled in my two pickups over 21 years, and counting, is divine documentation of all the wood I’ve burned in the days and nights of this once and former life.

From tree trunks, chestnut barn boards and old wooden doors that fell to the flames of Savage River bottomland, to the oak, locust and assorted logs of all girth and contour that turned to ash in the Englander wood stove that heats the Hut to 80 degrees on the bitterest nights, I want to know how much I’ve burned.

I also wanna know, how many miles of steps I’ve traveled, up and down by definition being equal, in the countless trips to the basement stove that burns most bodaciously.

There’s more, to be sure, of which I wish to know the final measure, of smoke and brew, Mountain Dew and Gummy Bears, bologna by the slice, and ketchup by the bottle.

And wine by the box, which is the pox that kept me from my flannel jammies, this mid-February winter’s eve. Tapped my little cardboard keg, and knew by tilt and heft, that the box had just about given up its vintner ghost.

“Blast!” thought I, of one more chore this Saturday night.

Donning denim and boots instead of flannel and bare feet, my steps were nevertheless light, even in the face of the task awaiting, which compelled yet one more exit to the cold and snow beyond Hut walls.

It is a measure of how spoiled I am by life in the Mountain City, that a trip to the beer store would even warrant a second thought to inconvenience. Wedging the truck out of the white-walls that yet confine Mechanic to a single lane, it’s a block to Hitchen, then a three-block roll down Ormand and what qualifies as a super market of beer-cheer, and fine wine of all kinds.

And bread and milk to boot, and candy bars and beer-babe posters.

Long ago I lived near Laurel, when any such trip entailed a dance between rush hours, and a roll of the dice against the maniacs on the road. I remain amazed that I can get pissed if I hit a red light or two coming through town, for memories of suburban torment will linger a lifetime.

Yet, even if it wasn’t blizzard conditions, if the wind didn’t howl and blast the face, if the snow wasn’t  flying, if the mercury wasn’t buried in the single digits, it was still Frostburg in February, with 3 feet of white keeping the cold wrapped tight to the ground.

The destination made the trip worthwhile, and truth is, I would have made it in the face of a demon Big Savage squall.

Because of Sunday Blue Law.

As one of strong Scotch strain, it is with keen satisfaction that I buy my wine these days, after four years of fine-boxed bouquet. Ever since Broadway Cherie introduced me to Franzia…a word that sings goodness…I’ve been a Chillable Red Man.

It was $9 something circa 2006, and I loved the bargain so, almost as much as the fruit of the vine through which it flowed prodigiously, inexpensively and tastily. from the lips unto my mind. Sort of like the first time you get high, but nothing like that really, given the altitude of the latter, and the time and place that can never be replicated, despite a lifetime’s joy of trying.

But the first glass of fine boxed wine is a moment unto itself, especially for one who knows a bargain, and nothing of wine.

If ignorance is bliss, why would I want your bottled expense?

Because Chillable Red delivered fine.

I used the past tense because, alas and amen, I found another love.

Red just kept going up in price, so that today it’s $14 a box. That’s a 55 percent markup in four years. They sent the shaft even further up my consumptive hind quarters with the onset of what’s being called the Great Recession. I love how corporate America took the opportunity, with the economy on the brink of collapse, to screw us even more.

So it grated a bit every time I bought wine.

Until, one day I found myself on Broadway, and they were out of Chillable Red. So I went with a brand known as Almaden, which rang a bell. And it was $11.

The first box I bought was Chablis, because I thought that meant Red in French.

But I was wrong, for it was white.

And tasty, too.

The next time I bought Broadway wine, I was a bit more discerning in my selection. With but two of the $11 vintage available, I figured I’d go with the alternative. Mountain Burgundy.

Fortunately the strength of association with the former word, how it is at the heart of me, overcomes the unfortunate connotation the latter brings to one particular football team which thankfully shall not be named, as this is a family publication.

Thus, as when I embraced Keystone over Coors Light, at $4 less a 30-pack, and mountains on the can to boot, I am reborn a Mountain Burgandy Man.

Saturday night in Frostburg, Maryland, it was like I was in love, for the 932nd time, only $3 less, every box of fine wine…