When it started last Saturday, I was in line at the Handy Market paying for my tri-trip sandwiches and ribeyes. A shout came from the group of Girl Scouts encamped outside — seriously, can you go anywhere right now without being overrun by precious young ladies selling cookies?
I thought someone had just bought the millionth box of Thin Mints and won a trip to Graceland. But it was something far better.
Or something like snow.
Let's be honest. To call it "snow" is to call a Taco Bell Chalupa authentic Mexican cuisine. Sure, it fell from the sky in flake-like droplets — something more substantial than rain, not quite as firm as hail. "Graupel," I heard one climatologist call it.
But since the idea of building a "graupelman" or engaging in a "graupelball" fight sounds more frightening than wondrous, let's just agree to call it snow. With a little effort, one could scrape enough off the hood of his car and stuff it down his wife's collar — thus making a very cold day just that much colder.
I got home and saw my umbrella open and strewn carelessly on the front lawn during the meteorological melee, the hail maelstrom. Snowpalooza. What is it about a father's possessions that make them so irresistible for kids to play with? I've bought them their own umbrellas, flashlights and retractable tape measures, but it's always mine they want to play with. And always mine that end up broken.
Thing 1, Thing 2 and all the other Things on our street danced and made merry like the snow angels they are, eyes wide at the miracle happening before them. They even pulled out a toboggan in innocent, hopeful preparation for the blizzard they knew must inevitably be coming.
There are no shades of gray to a child; their image of a snow day is something a bit more magical than the reality. Yet, magical still in ways we grownups can't recall.