Friday, December 3, 2010

frosty the snow midget

I had a Currier and Ives moment. Early last Thursday morning, I was drawn to the window, tea in hand, to gaze out over a white, white world. Snow had fallen through the wee morning hours and was still silently and steadily falling.
My morning brain jolted awake.
Grandchildren. Quick. Snow. Play.
We bundled up and rushed out the door. Our watches must have been synchronized because as we pulled into their driveway, out of their house they tumbled, like miniature Michelin Tire Men, roly poly and ready to go.
We exhausted the possibilities of snowy fun and the mitten supply, and then headed back to Grandma and Papa's house. A virgin lawn lay before us there.
Neighbors were working on a snowman. The giant snowball base could hardly be pushed, and was pulling up snow right down to the grass as it rolled slowly forward. We were inspired.
We formed the starter snowball and pushed. The snow was so dry. We tried again. And again. Advice was called across the chasm between the front yards.
They completed their snowman base and added the middle ball.
We packed the snow tighter. We rolled with a lighter touch. We rolled with a heavier hand. We rolled in deeper snow. Our starter snowball remained the size of a baseball.
They added a head.
We took to the side yard for fresh, unsullied snow.
Our ball grew to the size of a basketball. Perhaps we could push it back across the driveway before it got too heavy. Snowmen should be on the front lawn.
The snow had gradually been getting finer and the driveway was wet. As the basketball of snow was pushed across the long expanse of pavement, it diminished rapidly down to the size of a baseball again.
The neighbors snowman had a hat, and arms, a scarf and a face.
Not one to admit defeat, I rerolled a basketball sized base and added a baseball sized head. No middle, just a very small, very time consuming snowman.
"What do you think," I asked my grandson.
"Can I smash it Gramma?" he asked, his eyes sparkling. "Can I jump on it?"
"Sure, jump away,"
I noticed the next morning, that the warm wind and rain had slain the neighbors snow man. Or else he was suntanning, it was hard to tell from a distance.

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