We have a hard time working up much enthusiasm on account of the late hour and the fact that southern snow is just a tease. We're New Yorkers and haven't seen a good snow in all the years we've lived south of Mr. Mason Dixson. "Go back to bed," Stuart grumbles at John and we scooch together and sleep.
This morning, I feel around the nightstand for glasses and stumble groggy from bedroom past white windows. White. Snow stayed and piled up. Piled up.
"Stuart! Stuart!" I shake him frantically out of sleep. Get the camera! It snowed! I'm going to wake up kids." He looks at me with squinty eyes like I've lost my mind but moves quick for one woken rudely out of sound sleep.
The kids pile out of their beds and put on woefully inadequate snowgear; they wade into snow and troll puddles for it has rained nearly half a foot in the last few days. They forgo breakfast for time is short. The Sunday morning stillness is trampled by noisy pelters flinging balls and sculpting white. A snowman! Charlie has never seen this much snow and Claire doesn't remember Rhode Island winters.
All too soon, it is time to come in, sop out of wet clothes and bemoan the fact that no one has any dry shoes. We go to church where kids shuck wet footwear and when we come out again the snow is gone but there is no sorrow because this morning there was snow. Packing, perfect snow.