Living in Iowa has instilled in me a childlike awe for the season’s first snowfall. I bolted out of bed in a fury of excitement and pulled the curtain aside to gaze in breathtaking wonder at the splendid shower of snow and ice tumbling from the sky. Never mind that the gush was more sleet than snow, rather it was the crystals of memories that were evoked that mattered most. Sleigh bells were not part of my childhood but I could almost hear the jingle of chains wrapped around tires which mimicked the rhythm of bell adorned horses. I find myself ruminating over the sound of shovels scrapping against pavement rather than today’s annoying drone of snow blowers. And I can never forget the fever of excitement that would spread among the neighborhood children as we hurriedly clad ourselves in our winter gear, racing to be the first ones to soar down Allison Henderson hill.
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| Fearful sight outside my window |
But alas, I am not a child anymore. As I gaze out at the accumulating snow I find myself scrutinizing the street from my window and bemoaning that I do not see any evidence of salt trucks. The street in front of my house looks slick and that dispels all perception of a child’s first snow day. Anxiety abruptly replaces excitement as I ponder the snow spewing from the sky. Visions of fear filled trips across town dance in my head. You see, I will be leaving for work in a few short hours and as all us two wheel drivers know, snow can be hell. And to add injury to insult I live amidst hills and bluffs, making any trip more terrifying than any amusement park ride on earth. Likewise the thought of digging my car out of a plow produced snow drift and intensely scraping ice off my windshield while my extremities are numbed to the point of frostbite certainly does not prompt thoughts of living in a winter wonderland either. I wish I could afford the luxary of crawling back into bed; only to emerge when the lilacs are in full bloom.
