All day fat snow has been falling–the kind that frosts my coat, clogs my eyelashes and makes me feel quite Puckish. This afternoon, friends and I are walking to Salvation Army to buy sweaters and flannel and Christmas presents. There is absolutely nothing I would rather be doing this particular Friday than tramping through northeast-midwest snow in a hat and red peacoat with the FamPan.
When I woke up on the first of December to see the world white-washed, I groaned. “A great, suffocating blanket of ugh has descended,” I told myself, “not to rise again for months on end.” But I put on a sweater-dress and marched out to face it. Then came a peacoat in the mail. And boots out of my closet. And finally Christmas wormed into my soul, (“Well, in Whoville they say the Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes that day!”) and, also, the flakes gained weight. Really, who can resist a pudgy snowflake? It’s even more adorable than pudgy baby! Dozens of them nestle in hair, looking for all the world like Titania’s Cobweb and Moth. When I open my mouth to speak, they wander right in tasting of Christmas and glitter. I catch them, and they melt, but while they last they look ever so cuddly. How could George Bailey have jumped off a bridge on a snowy night?
To me, until I tire of it, this snow is useless, glorious manna inspiring my most dire creativity. I will skip my way to Salvo, and buy the biggest sweaters, the brightest flannel, and the most devilishly perfect presents. If only this particular snowfall will keep up I, myself, may demand to carve the roast beast.