I should be working right now; I have a half dozen things to do, but I’m not managing to get to any of them. I have submissions for an upcoming anthology to read and a book layout to work on, and I have my own book whispering to me, telling me it’s not finished and needs to get out of my head and onto paper.
But it’s snowing outside, and it’s that nice, fluffy, come-outside-and-play-with-me kind of snow. It’s the kind of snow that, even though it’s only 18 degrees outside, doesn’t feel all that cold, and shoveling the driveway isn’t a chore.
I opened the window shade this morning and saw the first flakes starting to fall (and consequently wound up laughing at the cat, who seemed to think the sky really was falling), and knew my work day was trashed. I ventured out to buy stamps (the bills have to be paid and mailed in, dangit, no matter what the weather), then came home and had lunch, watching as the snow fell layered gently across the lawn and driveway, until it was a good three inches deep.
Knowing the Spouse Thingy would be getting off work soon, I decided to go out and shovel the driveway—my across the street neighbor was doing the same thing, only she was bounding from driveway to driveway, doing them all. She sighed and said (as she heaved a shovel full onto her yard), “Isn’t this just so beautiful?”
I had to agree. It is absolutely beautiful.
Now, I’ve been fairly certain all winter that I did not want snow, I’d had enough in North Dakota, and that we could remain gray and dry all season long. But watching this snow fall, I remember what I loved about winter in ND; it’s just pretty.
I reserve the right to complain in 3 or 4 days, when it’s old snow and not so pretty anymore.