Yesterday came with a warning of bad weather, the kind of bad weather that I look forward to every winter, the kind that requires shovels, and de-icers, and a fire in the fireplace. Still, the morning dawned clear, and doubted the promises of white-outs and sleet. We went about our usual activities, which on Tuesday means venturing out, and by noon the skies had changed their mind, conforming to every meteorological wish. In the mid-afternoon, home from our errand running, I conceded the wait for dry weather and headed to the basement to run on the treadmill, only to come up 18 minutes later and find inch-long icicles hanging on our picnic table, bird feeders, trees, and grill. That was fast. Jon came home early, the library closed ahead of schedule and my evening meeting was cancelled, so we snuggled in and battened down the hatches. Nothing feels more like family than sitting together in a warm house, listening to ice batter the windows and watching snow accumulating quickly, turning the landscape into a sloppy white mess.
This morning more than half our little village was without power, our birch trees in the back were bent right down to the ground, and had there been school the kids would not have been able to reach the bus steps for all the piles of barely cleared snow in the street. They were kept home, and the joyous giggles of children romping in the snow filled our day. Jon was home, too, and even though he was still working, just having him close is always a nice change in our day. Plus, when he's home for a snow day, lunch break means crazy play in the snow. I have missed winter so much over the past few years, neither the heavy shoveling job this morning nor my sloppy, snowy run this afternoon could diminished my enjoyment of the season.
For the first time in a long time, I am not tired of winter yet.
