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If you DO want to know, welcome to my blog |
For those who actually want to follow my thoughts, ideas, moans, and gripes, this is the place for you! For those of you who are returning...I questions your judgment, you poor souls. 
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| On those mornings, we'd watch the TV as closely as our folks watched it on election night. We weren't waiting to see who the next president would be, though. We were waiting to see if Winton Woods Schools were closed due to snow. If they were, Our Lady of the Rosary, my childhood prison-cum indoctrination center, was closed too! SNOW DAY! Back then, it seemed like we had a lot of snow days. I'm probably wrong, but the past several winters feel like they've been a lot drier than in my childhood. Oh, one or two years out of five we might get a couple real snowfalls. But it was so much more permanent back then. So much more romantic—romantic in the literary sense. A teacher once put it in perfect words: "'Romance' is 'anywhere but here, any time but now.'" It was certainly "anywhere but here;" it was a different world. Especially when we had the opportunity to experience that world because there was no school! It's still a fuss when it snows. I have to slog the car out from where the plows (intentionally?) blocked me in—if they even plowed my street at all! Scrape the windshield, salt the walkway, track salt all over the house, get yelled at for tracking salt all over the house, vacuum up the salt that I tracked all over the house, go back out to the mailbox because I forgot to check for that package of yellow agate marbles I just had to have for some reason, track the salt inside again, get the broom, endure the eye-rolling, etc, etc... It was a fuss as a kid, too, don't get me wrong—a fun fuss!. But looking back, I wonder if the fuss was really that much fun at all. It seemed like it took a half hour to get ready and forty-five minutes to actually get to the sled-riding hill. five minutes to trudge up the hill, one minute to go back down (hopefully on a sled if one's big brother wasn't feeling bullyish at the time and miraculously avoiding a spinal injury along the way), and repeat that about five or six times, getting more and more tired each time. By the sixth time down the hill, it was no fun anymore. We'd walk the forty-five minutes (which now seemed like two hours) home cold and cranky, the aforementioned big brother now quite in the bullying mood, peel off our clothes and stand over the heat vent trying to get feeling back into our chilblained feet, fingers, and faces. But for some reason, exhausted as we were, once we were warm...we'd beg to do it again! I remember, years later, taking my own children out to sled ride. I have to say it took about half the time to get twice as cranky when I was an adult. And while there was no bullying (not from me, anyway; but there was an older brother involved that may or may not have behaved with perfect decorum), there was certainly no going back outside once we went home. I guess nothing lasts forever. "Nothing gold can stay," says Mr. Frost. Well, nothing white can or should stay either, I suppose. It used to make me sad; now I only feel relief during when it all melts away. Oh look, my phone's buzzing and jumping around. What's it telling me? Great—looks like it's going to be one of those one-in-five years this year. Onward cometh the white death! I better go check the mailbox to see if my tub of banana-passion fruit jam has arrived...before I sprinkle the salt this time. |
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