Okay, so here it is into the third week of March… a time when I am used to feeling the warm sun shining on my head, smelling fresh breezes with the scent of apple blossoms, and seeing the awesome beauty of daffodils, and dogwoods just starting to bloom. And what do I get?
Well, I awake to see a fresh layer of snow on the ground.
Not much snow, really little more than a dusting.
It is still that awful, dreadful, malicious, mean, nasty, rotten, yicky, ucky, gruesome, hated and despised white stuff.
“Out, out damned snow!”
(To mutilate the words of Lady Macbeth. The good thing about quoting Shakespeare is that you can cuss and get away with it!)
I’d give my right arm (well, maybe not that much, maybe a finger, or… well, really, maybe I’d just give up a hang nail) to be rid of the stuff.
I am sick of it.
Last Saturday was so promising. It was already 30 degrees at 8:00 a.m. Thirty! Can you believe it? Then the temp rose. It climbed up to around 60! 60 degrees by afternoon. What a lovely, lovely day.
Then about 6:00 on Sunday night. GRRRRRR. White stuff started plummeting from the sky. It increased as the night progressed—blinding me as I drove home from church, filling my car’s headlights (and my mind) with dizzying and numbing pristine blobs of ruinous and loathed white atmospheric litter. Litter, I say!
WHY? WHY, I asked? But my asking was to no avail. Still it came. I drove through the hated and dreaded malicious stuff—sure that it was mindful of my hate and was falling to the earth just to irk and frustrate me.
At home, it still came. As I went to bed, it still came. Will it never cease? Has the White Witch truly taken over the world. Will it be always winter and never Christmas?
I am ready to resign from the official “I Like Snow and Winter” Fan Club. I am turning in my membership card and moving to Barbados. Sunny climes and hot, sultry days. AAAAAHHHH! That would be life, indeed! But then the chill of my freezing office grips my fingers… and my heart. Old Man Winter grasps my throat and chokes out all hope.
I look out the window, and there, laying so innocently on the cold ground is the bane of my unfortunate frigid existence. I see it now. It looks so placid, so serene, so white. It just looks like snow. But it’s not. For I know… I know the true nature of the beast. It is a ravening wolf, a cold-hearted, frosty countenanced monster—laying silently on the ground, waiting, oh so patiently waiting—waiting to rise up and devour the world, to ravish the land—to eat out my heart, and spit out its frozen remains in icicle chunks.
Okay. That’s it. I quit. I give up. Winter, thou hast triumphed. I will not give the snow the necessity of winning. I will capitulate. Instead of the snow waiting, I will wait. I will go outside and throw off any vestiges of sanity and civilization, I will divest myself of my clothes and lie naked on the unfeeling, snow-laden ground and wait, oh so patiently wait, for hypothermia to come and claim my life’s breath. Then, when I am dead, and as cold as the hated snow… then take up my lifeless and frozen corpse, and ship me to the cold Arctic waste. Bury me beneath the tundra. Mourn not for me… but this summer, in your warm summer homes, offer popsicle toasts to the thought of winter and snow, which finally conquered a spirit that had once loved, but now hates snow. And think of me, lying cold and dead at the North Pole.
Hey! I just saw the sun reflecting off the windshield of my car in the parking lot. Oh well, so much for drama.