We had a lot of snow around here earlier this week (better part of a foot and change), hours after we had had blue skies, soft breezes and temps in the upper fifties and early sixties (think: pre-Beatles).
Please don't tell me 'well, everyone in the Northeast had snow' because that doesn't do anything for my mountains of white stuff. And unless you're new here, by now you have to know this is all about me (and only occasionally anyone else).
My passionate dislike of snow hasn't lessened or decreased in any way as the calendar pages have continued to turn. As my family can attest, I actually become angry when it snows, as irrational as even I recognize that behavior to be.
Shoveling and maneuvering the snowblower on Thursday evening once the snow stopped, I flashed on a memory of perhaps when I was an only child, living in Belford, New Jersey and in the backyard playing after a snowfall in which the snow was so deep, it was over my head.
I had dug paths in our backyard that faced a wetland (I think it was, even if we didn't call it that yet) and remember Mom coming out the back door that was at the mud room with the washer and dryer yelling for me and I'd have to run the length of the path so she could see and hear me.
I made myself smile by realizing that winters are milder now than when I was a kid, but, of course, there seems to be less snow because I am taller (and older, and grayer and less intelligent but I compensate for that by being less tolerant of others) than when I was four.
When I was a kid, I didn't know anyone at all the age I am now. I'm not sure I am cut out to be a chronological pioneer, but as if on cue, another day begins and here I am.