I love the first snow day of the season. Besides the momentary halting of set plans, it cleans the slate for new possibilities.
Our kids delight at an unscheduled day of freedom. They no longer bundle up or trundle outside. They don't make snowmen or snow forts or hound me to go sledding. They've happily outgrown last season's snow pants.
But even though they may squander the time holed up in their winter darkened bedrooms, the mood around us will be filled with light.
Celebration is in order on this rare day when snow accumulates, but their homework does not. They've already plowed through it.
I'm amazed by how fast their childhood has chugged along.
I've stopped worrying about this march of time in the same way I've stopped worrying about to-do lists being left undone.
Of course, as adults, we know that the probability of happenstance will focus on withdrawing our cars from their snowbanks and clearing off steps and sidewalks.
On the upside, our yard's imperfections are temporarily covered by a thick and glittery layer of frosting. From the warmth of my house, the coating looks light airy, though I know from its depth (and the occasional thud from a rooftop slide) that it is weighty and dense.
Whatever it covers may stay that way until spring.
I'd been waiting for the leaves of the dogwood to give up their ghosts. A yearly ritual that usually lasts beyond the window of time, our town allots for its convenient vacuum extraction.
The maples in the neighborhood have already shed their leaves in a timely, if not orderly fashion. My dogwood likes to be unfashionably late, clinging as it does to its dry and curling foliage for as long as vegetatively possible.
I don't mind. Its leaves are small, and when they finally make their descent, they will land in a tidy circle around the tree. No small part of me wants to kill the grass. In fact, the more significant portions: my arms, my legs, and my patience are in full agreement.
As they seem now, brownish-red flakes intermittently dotting the snow cover, the leaves punctuate my admiration for their unwillingness to quicken their demise.
But the leaves are the least of my worries today.
This, oddly, gives me a rare and fleeting chance to be neighborly; wherein I haphazardly try to identify neighbors by their proximity to a particular house, despite not being able to glimpse more than a few square inches of skin between scarf and beanie.
Asking if they need help breaking ice is a better ice breaker than one could imagine.
I'm surprised by how much I look forward to the work of removing the snow. How gratifying it is to shovel far enough to relieve the neighbor of some after-the-workday drudgery. How little it matters that the kids – forced into the light and a winter coat (maybe even long pants) – just lean on their shovels as they take turns lobbing snowballs at each other.
How it takes less time than I imagined but probably more muscles than I've developed in the off-season. The next-day ache will be my trophy.
Our kids delight at an unscheduled day of freedom. They no longer bundle up or trundle outside. They don't make snowmen or snow forts or hound me to go sledding. They've happily outgrown last season's snow pants.
But even though they may squander the time holed up in their winter darkened bedrooms, the mood around us will be filled with light.
Celebration is in order on this rare day when snow accumulates, but their homework does not. They've already plowed through it.
I'm amazed by how fast their childhood has chugged along.
I've stopped worrying about this march of time in the same way I've stopped worrying about to-do lists being left undone.
Of course, as adults, we know that the probability of happenstance will focus on withdrawing our cars from their snowbanks and clearing off steps and sidewalks.
On the upside, our yard's imperfections are temporarily covered by a thick and glittery layer of frosting. From the warmth of my house, the coating looks light airy, though I know from its depth (and the occasional thud from a rooftop slide) that it is weighty and dense.
Whatever it covers may stay that way until spring.
I'd been waiting for the leaves of the dogwood to give up their ghosts. A yearly ritual that usually lasts beyond the window of time, our town allots for its convenient vacuum extraction.
The maples in the neighborhood have already shed their leaves in a timely, if not orderly fashion. My dogwood likes to be unfashionably late, clinging as it does to its dry and curling foliage for as long as vegetatively possible.
I don't mind. Its leaves are small, and when they finally make their descent, they will land in a tidy circle around the tree. No small part of me wants to kill the grass. In fact, the more significant portions: my arms, my legs, and my patience are in full agreement.
As they seem now, brownish-red flakes intermittently dotting the snow cover, the leaves punctuate my admiration for their unwillingness to quicken their demise.
But the leaves are the least of my worries today.
This, oddly, gives me a rare and fleeting chance to be neighborly; wherein I haphazardly try to identify neighbors by their proximity to a particular house, despite not being able to glimpse more than a few square inches of skin between scarf and beanie.
Asking if they need help breaking ice is a better ice breaker than one could imagine.
I'm surprised by how much I look forward to the work of removing the snow. How gratifying it is to shovel far enough to relieve the neighbor of some after-the-workday drudgery. How little it matters that the kids – forced into the light and a winter coat (maybe even long pants) – just lean on their shovels as they take turns lobbing snowballs at each other.
How it takes less time than I imagined but probably more muscles than I've developed in the off-season. The next-day ache will be my trophy.
1 comment:
Loved the "breaking the ice" double entendre!
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