On A Snowy Morning

Last week I spent a couple hours writing "Tsunami Thoughts" and, with one keystroke, accidentally (and permanently!) erased it. That taught me to write things in my word-processing program first then copy them here-but this morning I just don't want to take that kind of time. You see, here in Seattle, snow has the life expectancy of a bouquet of fresh-cut daylilies and poppies; under optimal conditions, a day, day and a half (if you find mostly naked stems attractive) but fresh and whole; hours at best.
One of the reasons I moved to the Pacific Northwest was that I hate the cold (but my body can't handle heat) and coming from the Midwest, I've shoveled enough snow to qualify for senior status in the Futility Society (I mean, it all melts and vanishes anyway, right? yeah, my folks would never buy that, either). But once a year for a day or two, okay, pretty-pretty, call me when it's gone. Except, somewhere deep inside of me, this little boy woke up at the sight of all this scientific miracle of nature and, for just a few minutes, I gave into him.
The almost tickle-cold when the snowflake first touches your skin, and the speed with which it transforms itself into water and runs away! The almost electric sparkle when, after twirling for minutes with your head thrown back, you manage to catch one on your tongue. And the taste! Clear, sharp, sweet, minty and...gone. Again. And again. How it just scatters as you walk through it-weightless yet thick and almost furry!
But this little boy doesn't know that he's been imprisoned in an old man's body-tilting my head back gives me a crick in my neck and since I no longer own insulated boots, walking through fluffy, frozen water makes my bunions ache. Yeah, it would be fun to throw snowballs at the dogs-even this jaded old man agrees they're cute when they look up at me with snowbeards-but I don't have a fireplace to curl up in front of afterward to chase the chill from my joints and an electric baseboard heater just isn't the same thing at all. So, instead, I'll curl up with a book in the chair in my front window, a blanket over my legs, the dogs at my feet, watching today's children playing in the park across the street and promise the little boy inside, as he fades sadly and unwillingly away, that tomorrow, when it's a little warmer and this is mostly gone, we'll jump in a few puddles to make up for it.