Snow

“A Snow Rush”

            BACKYARD -- We lost the flowers on the day of the snow. I remember it just like it was last Tuesday. I got up early, looked out the backdoor and saw snow jetting by on the horizontal. Reminded me of the blizzard of 1888. -- My childhood imagination has refused to step aside.

            I haven’t seen much snow in my life, but on each occasion, I immediately shared the news with others, because I like to share good news. Plus, snow is less fun when you’re alone. It just looks weird to see a guy standing in his front yard, laughing, running around, but stopping long enough to catch a snowflake with his tongue.

            I immediately ran into the bedroom to get my jacket, and woke Kay up in the process. Part of the process involved me yelling, “Wake up, Sweetpea, it’s snowing! Kay’s reaction showed more terror than joy. For whatever reason, the girl doesn’t like to be yelled awake.

            I refused to let her pooh pooh my snow frenzy. I put on my snow jacket and snow boots, and ran out the front door. Eric, from across the street, was getting something out of his truck. He didn’t seem the least bit excited about the snow. He must’ve moved here from Albany. In an attempt to stir him up a bit, I yelled, “Hey, can you believe this?” I didn’t even consider that the rest of the neighborhood might still be in bed. Eric waved and yelled something back to me, but I couldn’t make it out.

            Kay eventually joined me. She handed me my knitted snow cap, and then looked around. Her assessment was astonishing. She said it wasn’t actually snowing. It was sleeting... very lightly. I followed her inside and called Virginia. Virginia likes snow. Virginia seemed a little put out by the phone call. After the news, I heard her say, “Freeman, Mark thinks it’s snowing. Go outside and check!”

            Freeman didn’t see any snow, which led Virginia to reach into her giant cache of sarcasm and pull out, “When you see a polar bear, call me. But not till then.”  Virginia’s sarcasm isn’t as good as mine, but it still stings. That just ripped it for me. I now knew how Donald Southerland felt in “Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” I don’t like stories where nobody believes the person who notices that aliens are among us or that the serial killer is Uncle Ned or the blizzard is on its way.  

            Instead of crying, I grabbed some coffee and tried to balance the cup as I ran out the backdoor, only to find that it had stopped snowing. The way things are going with me, I have every confidence that by the end of the New Year, my friends and acquaintances will have lost the last hint of respect for me. I know that my memorial service will be big draw, because everyone who knows me will want to show up for the laughs. You ever feel that way?

            Oh, and on top of that, the flowers died. Kay covered the bed of impatiens the evening before the big snow, but it did no good. I wish you could’ve seen the blooms the day before the freeze. A bed of red. There were a couple of roses blooming, but they were nothing compared to the low blanket of red impatiens.  Do you know why they’re called impatiens? I didn’t either until I looked it up. The flowers got their name from the Latin word for “impatient.” Seems impatiens are often so anxious to get started blooming that the mere touch of one of their seed pods will cause it to burst open. So much better a name than “Burst Pod.”  

            Oh well, some things react differently in cold weather. Some plants die, bears take a long nap, and my neighbor from the north gets tickled at me for getting excited about tiny pellets of ice.

If we do get a winter this year, I’m going to be ready for it. I do hope you’ve noticed the cleared area in the small plot of trees and brush. I refer to the area as the “Fifth-of-an-Acre Wood.” Don’t you love Winnie the Pooh. (Wow! That’s the third “pooh” in this article.)

            It was Brad Meyer’s idea that I clear out a small area in the wooded plot, and wheeling my small BBQ pit out, sitting around at night, smoking cigars, occasionally spitting  on the ground, and drinking mead from horned flasks. While the wives were doing that, Brad and I could make jewelry of acorns and wolves’ teeth. (Now, I’m even beginning to get excited about my memorial service.)

            Brad said he’d help me prepare the site. The cleared area will not be ready in time for Thanksgiving, but, hopefully, New Years. Just in time for the good ol’ South Texas heat wave.

end

You can contact Mark at  hayter.mark@gmail.com. “The Summer of 1976” is still available on e-book at Amazon Books.