Snow Days – A Measure of Age

And the snow is just beautiful. Especially the way it covers the delicate branches of my forest. Just the arms of the trees stretching upward, normally ugly and calloused this time of year, and now made lovely with brushstrokes of snow. Today a cardinal broke through the world of white. How does he survive such weather? I can barely stay outside for thirty minutes. I hover on the porch taking pictures while my children frolic in the snow. Is it a sign of age? I only love snow when I can be inside sipping coffee by the window.

As a child, I remember one snowfall during the four years we lived in Texas. I still can picture my dad rolling out a base for the snowman. It took all the snow in the yard to make that snowman. Later, in Kansas City, we had big snows. I remember my big gray snowboots and sled days at school. Except we didn’t have a sled. Once we slid down our ice-covered street on a flattened refrigerator box.

I think if we had a sled now, I would have gone out and played with the kids. My wimpy “it’s cold” self got the best of me this time. Am I really that old and cranky at 31? It’s time to reconnect with that child who cared nothing about the freezing air, just about the exhilaration of pushing down snow with her boots, of hearing the crunch of it with every step, the way the wet wind against your face while sledding makes you think there is nothing at all in the world but this moment.

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