It is snowing and blowing outside, has been for hours upon hours. The weatherman says it's likely to continue for hours more. More than a foot has fallen, though the mountains of drifts make it hard to say exactly. I'm glad it's Saturday so there was no decision-making about whether to risk the roads to get to work. It wouldn't have been a hard decision— I'm old enough to know it isn't worth the risk. The refrigerator and pantry have plenty to keep us fed; it's not likely we'll be trapped in the house for more than a day. As long as we don't lose power, we'll be okay, safe and warm inside. I feel sorry for my neighbor's dog, who I normally consider a barking nuisance. I glanced out the window just in time to see him belly deep in snow, attempting to squat and do his business. Poor thing scrambled up, bolting for the door, as if to say, “Not going to happen-- Sorry, in advance, but there may be an accident later on.” At some point we'll have to venture out; the snow isn't going to shovel itself after all. It'll be a while before that happens as there's no point in shoveling when the wind's blowing so hard. More than likely, we'll wait till tomorrow, when the sun is sure to be shining— it always seems to do that after a big storm. It's pretty enough through the window. If I were a child, I'd be begging to go out in it, pleading with my father to build a snowman; he would have told me it wasn't the kind of snow you needed to build a snowman. It's too soft to even make a good snowball. But I'm not a child. I am old and hopeful that the snow will be powdery and light because of the bitter cold, and thus easier for these old bones to shovel. For now, I'll watch through the window while the laundry tumbles in the basement. Snug in my old chenille bathrobe, I'll breathe in the warmth of hot tea, try to forget the havoc created by blizzards that we grownups fixate on, and remember the joy that came with the snowy days of childhood.
~Elise Skidmore ©2022