After whining about the snow here in South Beach, known for surfing not skiing, I received my stepson’s happy reaction to the white stuff in Portland by e-mail and decided to stop watching the disaster reporting on TV and embrace the weather. I put on my thermals and boots, stocking cap, gloves and heavy coat and went out with the dogs. I laughed as they pawed at the snow and ate chunks of it as if the yard were a giant snowcone. I savored the crunch of my boots on the snow, tested the top powdery layer, the brittle frozen center and the solid ice at the bottom and measured the depth with a ruler: approximately two inches. I snapped endless photos and threw snowballs for the dogs to chase. I let my inner child out to play.
The second morning dawned blue and pink, and we had sun on snow that had been whipped into peaks like frosting by the dogs’ running and wrestling. They played for hours, seemingly unaware that it was 25 degrees. The front-yard snow lay perfectly smooth, except for bird tracks, like tiny quotation marks. The driveway still showed the tire-tracks from our brave newspaper carrier and my footprints to the mailbox—which was frozen shut.
Alas, my giant blue hydrangea plant sits broken under the weight of frozen snow, but the junipers, rhodendrons and azaleas stand strong, and I’m hopeful for my rosemary and lavender.
I will be so glad to see grass and clear pavement again, but that’s not going to happen for a few more days. A blend of rain and snow is predicted for today and tomorrow, but the temperature may actually get up to 40. Meanwhile, there is something magical about all this amazing snow. I wonder what I could use to sled down the hill. Hmm.