Eleven-year old Zach has been doing a snow ritual to summon snow. I don’t know exactly what this ritual involves–other than an ice cube–but apparently it worked for this afternoon, while driving home from church, I spotted the first tiny snowflakes whizzing across the freeway. Soon the children noticed, too.
When we pulled into the driveway, the snowflakes had grown bigger. They stuck to our clothes. Showing admirable restraint, they stayed indoors for awhile to give the snow time to “pile up.” When a half inch had fallen, they donned snowsuits, boots, mittens and frolicked in the back yard.
Awhile later, Zach went to the neighbor’s house to “sled” down the slope in their back yard. (The back yard is smallish, just like ours. They must have very slippery grass.)
But now, the snow has stopped. The deck is covered by a white blanket, but such a pitiful and thin white blanket.
I don’t have the heart to tell Zach that his snow ritual isn’t working because of me. After all, I’m the one who finally purchased snow shovels after living here for eleven years.
And two full-sized snow shovels squash even the most fervent child’s snow ritual.
Promise you won’t mention this to him.