Sometimes, I’m amazed by how much my perspective has changed since childhood. Way back then, when my sister and I made this magnificent snowman (with the help of a college student who rented a room in our basement), snow was the best thing about winter.
Snow meant a day off from school and from Mom’s eagle eye. Back in those days, teachers had to go to school on snow days, so we had eight hours of free reign in front of the television. Dad was our willing conspirator in TV gluttony, joining our worship of Captain Kangaroo, I Love Lucy reruns, Password, and Concentration, interrupting the frenzy just long enough to catch the market reports on the noon news broadcast. All the talk of pork bellies and hog futures was nauseating, but quickly forgotten when the Dating Game came on.
Fifty years later, snow’s the worst thing about winter, not counting the cold, the dark, ice, mittens, snow boots, coats, and hats. But I’m not counting them, so pretend I didn’t say anything. Snow’s really, really the worst thing during a week like this one, with four speaking engagements, which means I have to be on the road. Or decide not to travel, which means an event has to be cancelled, which means disappointing people. And I hate disappointing people, which is why snow is my least favorite thing about winter.
Which means this week will be either an adventure in driving or a series of disappointed people. So far, I’m ahead of the snow because I drove to Independence, which isn’t supposed to get as much snow as back home, a day early. We’ll see how long it takes for Old Man Winter to get ahead of me.
Oh, to be five again, loving snow, watching TV with Dad, playing outside with my sister, building the best snowman ever. Oh, to make everyone happy. Oh, to feel completely safe.
