The snow that fell a couple of days ago, which is now all gone in the rain that fell overnight, made me feel just a little, I don’t know, bored with winter. Which is silly because there hasn’t actually been that much winter going on around here. Seattle has gotten more snow than we have and that’s just plain wrong! Plus, as I’ve said in other formats, I feel so sorry for those tens & hundreds of thousands of people who rely on snow to make their living. It’s just that I’m not one of them, and I’m not that big a fan of snow.
Which is mostly about boots, I know. I don’t like boots generally speaking, although when I have to wear my “gumbie” boots it’s because we’re up at the cottage and the ground is mucky and I love jumping into mud puddles so that’s not so bad. The thing about boots is putting them on, going somewhere, taking them off, leaving & putting them back on again, getting home, taking them off, leaving puddles everywhere you go. Yuck. However, there once was a pair of boots that made snow more fun, the boots I had in Grade 7. They were white, with lovely silver buckles and soft, warm rabbit fur trim. Really, very cute. I happily wore those boots all winter long but must admit there was that one day when I really didn’t want to wear them.
It was early May, and the snow had been gone for two, even three weeks and no one else at my school was still wearing their boots but my mother, who was a woman of great persuasive power, insisted that it was still too cold to just wear shoes and socks. So, sigh, there I am, trudging 10 blocks to school in my still-cute but rather weary white boots with the rabbit-fur trim, wondering if my mother will ever admit spring has arrived and I walk in the door. Standing at the top of the stairs is our principal, Mr Taylor, who smiled at me, traveled his eyes down to my boots and then back up to my face before asking, “Is there something you know about the weather the rest of us don’t?”
I told him, “No, sir. It’s not the weather. It’s my mother.”
That night at supper, when I told my mother about my conversation with Mr Taylor, my father suggested that perhaps it was time to put away the boots. So, it was agreed that the next day was going to be a shoes and socks sort of days. Hooray!
Until I woke up the next morning to a couple of inches of snow on the grass and crocuses.
Don’t you just hate it when your mother is right? Again!