Entries from January 2009 ↓

I have a faint memory of peering through the windows in my second grade classroom and watching snow fall, it must have been 1986. Three years later we woke to snow for Christmas. I remember on other occasions watching the thermometer, hoping and praying for snow. There was an ice storm that froze the pines bending them into unnatural poses and snapping limbs.

In 1999 I moved to St. Paul, I eagerly anticipated that first snow. I later attended my first sledding party in jeans and thin leather boots and cried on the way home as my feet slowly and painfully thawed. My second winter someone was kind enough to educate me on the joy of thermal underwear. It may not be sexy, but it has an appeal of another kind.

April 15, 2002 I cried and cursed the four inches of snow on the ground and in March of 2004 I watched Spring in fastforward as we drove 1200 miles with all of our possessions to settle in this warmer land.

Today heavy clouds hang low and the local news is abuzz with the possibility of flurries. As for me, I’m just thankful if it does snow it won’t linger.

The first winter I lived in Minnesota was a rude awakening, mostly due to the weather, but new terminology as well. One particularly cold morning I wandered into work and overheard a conversation between co-workers.

#1 – Can you believe my grandpa woke me up at 5am to tell me to watch out for black guys?

#2 – Black guys scares the crap out of me.

Not knowing either of the women in the conversation I was aghast. I timidly asked, “Why would black guys be something to worry about?”

#1 – It got really cold last night.

Me – Well, wouldn’t they stay home like anyone else with sense?

At this point both women just stared at me. Finally woman #2 said very slowly “Black ice, Heather, black ice.”

Me – Oh!

Another Sunday night has arrived. The kids are tucked in, but are not quite ready to surrender to sleep. Currently, strains of Jingle Bells are drifting down the stairs. They aren’t fighting, so neither will I.
Tim and I have been working at the old house again. Some of it is easy. I don’t mind pulling staples and tackboard. If anything that job is a relief.
It’s the sorting that kills me. Knowing my father hates to part with anything, it’s hard to throw away a stack of letters, even though they have both moved on and are married to other, a cracked picture that used to hang in the hall. Those things can be hard, butaren’t impossible.
The pieces that hurt are those that were meant to be used and have simply rotted away.
I look at those broken toys and wonder how much overtime he has put in to cover the cost of an item he meant to use with his family, but never got around to.
It’s an old story and a familiar one to some, but how I hate sifting through the pieces of the past