TheBanyanTree: Snow

[Monique Colver]

At 5:15 am Ash told me he needed to go outside. At least he waited until
5:15.

Two nights ago he told me he needed to go outside at 2 am. He tells me this
by standing at my side of the bed and staring at me. And as if by magic, my
eyes pop open. I was coming out of the deepest stage of sleep, also known
as the coma, so I asked Andrew, who never wakes up when he's stared at, to
take Ash out for me.

Andrew said, quite clearly, "Sure," then rolled over and went back to
sleep.

Hmph. I gave in to Ash's request, and the two of us trudged downstairs,
though mostly I was trudging while Ash was blithely running down the
stairs. When he came back inside he insisted on cleaning up Honey's
leftover dinner, foraging for the bits of food she may have left at her
bowl. This was particularly odd since his food bowl was almost full, but he
had no interest in it. Everyone knows the older dog gets the best food.

Usually when I ask Andrew to get up and take the dog out he complies quite
nicely, but usually I do it since I am, after all, awake. I'm awake because
the damn dog is staring at me with his laser guided doggie stare. Why have
two people awake when one is sufficient for the task?

But I digress, as usual.

For days we've been hearing that light snow is in the forecast, and each
day it rains. We're not much into snow, here in the PNW, so the idea of it
is so unexpected that we obsess over it. Mostly we hope it doesn't come to
that, though some of us don't mind so much. By some of us, I mean me, of
course, because it's not as if I have to even leave my house. In fact, this
week I'm not leaving the house. There's too much work to be done, and all
of it must be done at my desk, all day.

So at 5:15 Ash and I trudged downstairs, he skipping blithely, to discover
actual snow on the ground. I know it was snow because it is white, and wet,
and it's still falling. I may have been half asleep, but I'm not totally
out of it.

I grew up in California, where we had snow only in the mountains, which we
visited once a year for two days. After I left home at 18 my parents, in a
misguided attempt to lose me, moved to the mountains and only mentioned it
to me after the fact, when I was in Europe, as if to say, "Hah! Look at us!
We moved and you've no place to return to!"

Not that I would return. Does a condemned man, let out of death row for a
holiday, willingly return? Not likely.

Anyway, I was in Germany, and had plenty of my own snow to contend with.

I've never grown tired of it, though I've done my share of shoveling in the
midwest years, those years when I could count on a blanket of the stuff to
impede my daily progress in the winter months. I couldn't stay at home to
earn money then, not like now, so I learned how to drive in it, shovel it,
manage it, and even walk in it. And still, every year I found it a wonder.

Andrew grew up shoveling snow, since he's from Anchorage, which seems to
get its share of the stuff, and he doesn't miss it. "You don't have to
shovel rain," he tells me, which is quite true. But rain is just . . . wet.
Snow is wet and not, at the same time. I'm fairly certain that if I had to
be out and about I would not enjoy the snow as much. I remember driving in
blizzards, alone, in North Dakota, to get from one half of the state to the
other, which means much driving in nothingness. I remember shoveling my car
out every morning and shoveling it back in every night when I was on my own
in Wisconsin. I remember how in North Dakota I had to back my little Civic
up on the little road in front of our house. The house was up on a hill,
with a steep driveway, and when the snow was heavy and I was coming home I
would back the Civic up down the street so I'd be facing the driveway, and
then I'd gun it for all it was worth, and if I was good enough, the car
would make it to the top of the drive. We often had to leave the truck at
the bottom and walk up, but I could usually get my Civic up.

But I don't have to do any of that anymore. And the amount of snow we get
is so small that it's not as if I'd have to do any of that anyway. This
snow may be gone by the time I wake up again. But just maybe it'll stay for
a few hours.

A girl can dream.

Speaking of which, I'm going back to bed now.

M