Snow Job

There were a number of people who, when they heard that I was taking a day off, wanted to know if I was "going to the snow." Was I leaving my urban setting for one more bucolic, or perhaps more tranquil? That was certainly my hope, and yes, I expected to find some snow there. But it wasn't my main reason for going.
Don't get me wrong, I've always had an appreciation for snow. It's a very functional bit of precipitation. It can provide hours of amusement for those who are mildly creative, or the slightest big combative: Snow men, snow angels, snow forts, snow balls, and snow ball fights. This always sounds like such a lot of fun. It always sounds like such a lot of fun as you pull on your extra pairs of socks, a second or third sweater beneath your jacket, a pair of gloves and a knit hat. As you prepare to leave the protection of your airlock and step out into the harsh reality of winter, some of the fun drifts away. But not all of it. There will always be a few fun moments before the first kid gets pasted in the one square inch of skin left showing on his face. Then the fun stops. Abruptly.
Once the apologies have been made, and the disarmament takes place, a substitute activity has to be found. Why not try sledding? That's a lot easier to deal with, until the kids figure out that there are only two sleds that go really fast, and the rest are just annoying chunks of polystyrene. More negotiations ensue, and a system that gets put in place to ensure that every child gets at least one turn on the really cool sled gets undermined as siblings ignore one another and different deals are cut at the bottom of the hill, negating those made at the top.
Still, there were a lot of smiles and laughter, and after three days, most of the truly egregious behavior came from the adults who may have stayed just a little too long inside the cabin. When I felt my own inner child on the verge of having a tantrum, I went out for a run. As I stepped carefully around the slush at the side of the road, I found myself fascinated by the thin, clear layer of ice that had formed on the surface of the puddles. I could see gray air bubbles making round art near my feet. My first instinct came from my youth: to step on them to hear the pop and crunch of the sheet of ice under my shoes. Then I remembered all the puddles I had cracked on my way to Columbine Elementary, all those cold Colorado winters ago. So I let them be, as I felt my smiles return. Maybe this trip to the snow wasn't so bad after all.