This morning's winter wonderland.
It was lovely last night watching it fall while we were snug inside by the fire. It was coming down in big flakes, the kind you see cut out of white paper and pasted on the windows in elementary school. The gypsy soup was - my favorite - and popcorn during the movie. Splendid.
And then as a real treat, just before we turned in the night, we looked out the back door and saw three deer (does) in the yard pushing the snow aside with their noses to get the acorns that cover our yard.
This morning I went out early to take some pictures - the sun was just beginning to touch the branches laden with snow and the sparkle was magic.
Buddha, as usual, took it all in stride.
My parents would have been married 58 years today.
My father was just as happy as any kid when it snowed even though his drive home from his construction job in NY City might take many times longer than the usual hour and he would have to shovel the snow when he arrived.
And what a shovel Pop had! Not one of those light-weight bright orange ones that are stacked by the dozens in your local supermarket or in super stores screaming their sameness. It was a serious shovel, purchased with consideration for its quality and durability.
The metal scoop looked like the plow on a truck and lifting the shovel without a load of snow would be a strain for me but Pop lifted it like a feather. It cut a path from our Levittown door, down the driveway and into the street. Snow piled up on either side as Pop swung the shovel in the air and snow showered down for the second time.
While Pop worked, I played. I made snowmen with my mother and had snowball fights with the neighborhood kids. We built igloos and forts and snow angels. We stayed out in it until our snowsuits were soaked and our lips were blue. Conditions easily remedied by dry clothes and hot chocolate.
We were kids and it was the best time in life.
So... I didn't build a snowman today or made a snow angel. But I thought about my Dad and enjoyed the snow - even the removal part.
And who knows, there's always tomorrow...