I am on my way back up to the frozen north. And having spent the first part of winter in Florida, I am not looking forward to the snow. I mean, I want to look at it. I just don’t want it to touch me. Or seep into my boots.
I grew up in a valley settled between four mountain ranges. It’s a lovely place, but every once in a while, a storm will settle over the valley and pound us to death. When I was little, we had a really bad blizzard. The wind was so strong, it blew the snow up onto our covered, four-foot-high porch, so we couldn’t even open the door to get out of the house. We were surrounded by five feet of snow all around.
But my mother, refusing to be trapped in her own home by mother nature, told my sister and me that we were going to play a fun game. She wrapped us up in all our winter clothes and tossed us out the window into the snow. Then she tossed down shovels and called, “Shovel the door out! I’ll have cocoa waiting when you get in!”
I turned to my big sister ready to cry, but she just looked at me and shook her head.
“She’s not coming out for us. We have no choice. We have to dig our way in.”
My sister led the way, and we dug our frozen little butts back in to the hot cocoa.
While I have no fear that, should we get snowed in, my husband would try and toss me out the window, I still hate the idea of more than three feet of snow.
But hey, if I do get snowed in, I’m sure I’ll get into trouble. And I’ll be sure to tell you all about it.