For the first time this winter we're actually having real, live "snow." Last week the temps floated up around the 60's. But right now it's coming down in what is known loosely, in this part of the country, as a "snow squall." Not enough to be a blizzard, but enough to be annoying.
We've been having one of those Global Warming Winters that you hear so much about although my friends on the Left Coast would probably chime in that they're experiencing the same thing what with incessant rains, winds and mudslides.
I can take the cold of winter, but my fascination with snowstorms ended around 1960, when I stopped hitching rides on my Flexible Flyer sled, running out from between parked cars in order to throw myself to the roadway on the sled, while simultaneously wildly grabbing for the rear bumper of a car, a city bus, or an 18-wheeler. That, incidentally, was our idea of "fun" when I was a child. Until it invariably involved somebody losing a limb or a life and then we all got yelled at and grounded.
Snow, especially heavy snow, is now a major pain in the ass. Right now I'm sitting here trying to remember if I put the heavy duty ice scraper/snow brush in the back seat of the car, or if I left it at home. I don't worry about driving in the snow so much anymore, ever since I got the Honda Element. It has automatic 4-wheel drive, which kicks in when it senses that all the wheels are not spinning at the same speed. That baby has no problems with snow.
This, I think, is one of the consequences of aging. I love having seasons. I can't imagine living in a never-ending paradise where it's always 78 degrees and sunny. I would sorely miss the ravishingly gorgeous colors on a brilliant, crisp October morning, or the sublime pleasure of watching an entire street in my little town suddenly burst into riotous bloom on a warm, lazy, Spring afternoon.
Feh. What useful purpose does winter serve? (And all my skier friends can spare me the hate calls and emails).