01.17.16 After the rain, ten inches of snow fell on our nearby nordic ski trails. Everything was white–the sky, the trees, the ground. An enchanted fairy land! By the time we finished skiing, it was snowing again. And by the time we drove home from Whitefish last night, after dinner with friends, it was raining. We are starting a week of the dreaded rain/snow mix, which causes schizophrenia in our household–defined as “a brain disorder in which people interpret reality abnormally.”
On the snowy days, I love winter and fret that January is speeding along way too fast. So many books to read, movies to watch, and as I read how knitters love the feel of wool sliding over their fingers, I think that maybe this will be the year I take knitting lessons, and sit by the cozy fire, suddenly knowing how to make an exquisite sweater. Then it rains over the snow, and the stone steps to the garage are treacherous sheets of ice, and I have to snowshoe down our road, afraid my car will slid off into the woods. I waste hours looking online at photos of Hawaiian resorts.
Sinclair Lewis once wrote, “Winter is not a season, it’s an occupation.”