'Tis The Season

There are some snowfalls that are special. Not just the ones on Christmas Eve or Thanksgiving Day that gives us our ideal picture of over the river and through the woods (not to mention making that trip to Grandmother's House so memorable), but also the very first snowfall of The Season.

It's a matter of timing and personal taste. For some, The Season begins on All Saint's Day (November 1st for those who never read their calendars) and ending on January 2. The snow very rarely complies for them. For others, it's a strict Thanksgiving to New Years kinda thing. For me, The Season begins anywhere between Hallowe'en and Thanksgiving and ends whenever I'm sick of the snow and cold - usually right around the middle of January when all the fun holidays have run out.

So when do I decide that my Season has begun? The first Real Snowfall. I don't mean the succession of little flurries that loom and threaten and bring a little thrill of tease. Or that first thin layer covering the windshield early one frosty morning. [We've already had two or three of those. Which should have provided me with ample time to replace the missing ice-scraper but which still finds me using CD cases and - lately - a spatula to clear my windows in time to get to work before 8:00 am where the rest will melt in the late morning sun.] The first Real Snowfall can come without warning, or follow extreme anticipation. Both are fun for children. Adults tend not to be quite so enamored if they're not prepared.

Yesterday, while New England still enjoyed their amazing Indian Summer, southern Minnesota became enveloped in a cozy blanket of big, wet, ploppy snowflakes. And I wasn't prepared. But I enjoyed as much as I could. By the time 2:00 pm rolled around and I had waded my way through about 8 inches of snow in the parking lot, the snowplow had come by my apartment and left a two foot bank in front of my unshoveled driveway. I don't have an overdeveloped confidence in my Ford Explorer's ability to plow through the snowbank in front of my driveway. I circled around the block trying to find a solution that wouldn't involve me parking on an as yet unplowed street and finding myself good and truly stuck in the morning. Of course, that solution became, as it usually is, my cousin. I drove to her house, 'borrowed' her snow shovel (to be returned today) and came back to my neighborhood, parking in the street while I dug two holes in the snow wall for my tires to plow through. What - you thought I'd shovel the whole thing?

Now a sidetrip to shoveling a sidewalk with a two year old whose mother has yet to buy snowboots and won't wear mittens. Socks, of course, solve the mitten problem. It's just that you have to have a large supply as I have yet to find a pair of waterproof socks. Walker particularly likes to wear my big, fluffy orange chenille Hallowe'en socks with the black cats on them. Hey, it works. But the boot situation...well, I admit I was still on New England time. It appears that a quick trip to Wal-Mart (I know, I know, Mary, it's The Man.) is in order.

But I'm digressing. Even though I shoveled far more than I intended to, and I didn't even do a terribly thorough job - I certainly wouldn't have paid myself for it - I have to admit I enjoyed myself. The back and legs only ached for a few minutes - sign of my still impending mortality (no matter how hard I try to deify myself). More importantly, as I was later pricing snowblowers, I realized that all too soon I will have a teenaged son. And then I shall enjoy snowfalls all the more. Probably more than he.

An hour and several clothing changes later, the baby and I found ourselves in a warm house, wrapped in sweats and munching on hot buttered popcorn and warm chocolate milk (well, it really wasn't Hot Chocolate - it was bottled chocolate milk nuked in the microwave.) and I Felt It. The beginning of The Season. Suddenly, I felt a little more rejuvenated, a little more reverent, a little more joyful. I could picture the Christmas Decorations in my mind's eye. I could feel That Special Feeling (the kind that makes me use capitals like a Lemony Snickett devotee).

My Season has begun. I hope your seasons all begin as warm, cozy and filled with snow angels as mine. In fact, if they don't, I'm sure there'll be many more a snowfall where I am. Maybe you could catch one of those and join in the Spirit. Mine should be flagging somewhere around President's Day.

I Got Nothin'

How to keep a determined two year old out of the trash: .......

How to keep a determined two year old from tracking large quantities of white flour throughout the house and into all the holes of the electronics: .....

Somedays, it just pays to be gross, messy and laugh a lot. And buy the extended warranty to everything.

Color My World

It's one of those moments when you realize there's nothing else like one of these moments.

As a child, we revel in it because our innocence and ability to live in the moment allows us to appreciate the small, amazing things of life.

As an adult, it is a reminder that sometimes, life really is about a brand spanking new box of 24 Crayola Crayons. The crispness of the cardboard that has yet to be dented, crushed, taped, ripped or softened to a leather like quality from use. The smell of the box. Come on, take a moment. You know that smell. We all know that smell. It is a smell of possibility. That fresh, never been used, crayon smell.

Which color do you reach for first? Your favorite? Or do you save the best for last? Me? I have so many favorites that it makes the whole experience worthwhile. But I always, Always, start with the Indigo crayon and a good coloring book. In this case, a collection of Mickey and Friends. Pluto is a great choice for those of us who think the white crayon is a waste of time.

Yep, an extra sharp, manufacturer provided point on the top of a brand new, smells like Crayola Heaven Indigo crayon, time to sit on the floor and color before Mr. Let's Scribble Lots of Orange on Every Page notices and, folks, life just doesn't get any better.

Unless, of course, it's a box of 64 with the built in sharpener...

Oops, I Did It Again

With all the local election coverages, the voters' exit polls citing scandals as a major consideration, the divisive coverage of party wars, the virtual hanging chads, the fate of our nation in the House and Senate, it's good to see that one of the top news stories of the day - maybe even the week - didn't slip under the radar.

Britney filed for divorce from K-Fed.

I think I speak for everyone when I say "Oh look, there is a brain in her body after all."

And now...back to your local election.

Hey It's Franklin

If you've never watched Noggin's 'Franklin' - about a young turtle named, oddly enough, Franklin - then you probably ought to skip this one and wait for something a tad more universal. But for those of you who know the show...you know, anyone with children, grandchildren, godchildren, nieces, nephews, etc. and a TV...I have a question. [No, I have plenty to do, why do you ask?] Franklin's friends are Bear, Snail, Fox, Skunk, JackRabitt (just 'Jack', thank you), Otter, Goose, etc. His parents are Mr. and Mrs. Turtle. So why are Franklin (and later, his sister Harriet) the only ones in the entire series with names? It's not like we don't know he's the star of the show already. I just don't get it.

[I do, too, have a life. Whatever might you be suggesting!]