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Snow Fun by Anita Hull

I took my sewing basket together with a couple of skirts and settled myself in the living room. Since mending is not my occupation of choice I like to do it where I am comfortable. My front window overlooks a park and it is pleasant to look out occasionally between stitches.

This morning the view was particularly beautiful. We’d had a heavy snow the night before, but now the whistling wind had died down and the air was still and calm. Large drifts were everywhere and in the bright sunlight the snow sparkled like diamonds. As far as I could see, the park was blanketed in white and there was not a foot print or mark anywhere. Snow covered the benches and playground equipment. It was as though the house holders had put dust cloths over their furniture and gone south for the winter.

As I gazed at the vast, brilliant field before me, my inner child came and stood next to me. "Remember how we used to love to play in the snow?" she asked. I smiled as I thought back and recalled how much fun we’d had throwing snow balls, erecting forts and the favorite thing of all: making snow angels. Whenever we found an area of untrodden snow we would fall backwards into it and with much giggling and laughter we would flay our arms back and forth over our heads, forming wings and at the same time moving our legs sideways to form the skirt. Of course, each one claimed his or her angel was the most perfect.

My child nudged me, interrupting my reminiscing, and said, "look at all that white stuff! Think of how many angels we could make out there!"

"No," I said wistfully, "I’m too old. If I ever got down I could never get up again." "Nonsense," she countered, "I see a hill out there. You could fall back on it and you would be on an angle and it wouldn’t be at all hard to get up." "No," I said again. I was very firm. I knew where my duty lay. The waist band on my skirt had been held together too long with a safety pin. My mother used to call it the Irish button. The scotch tape that held up the hem on the other skirt had already been reinforced several times.

"All right for you . I’ll go alone. You don’t know what you’re missing," said my Child as she disappeared.

I looked out the window and sighed. Suddenly the years seemed to drop away from me. I felt young and vibrant again. Gleefully I tossed aside my mending and put down the sewing basket. Hey, wait up," I called, "I’m coming." And I headed for the closet that held my winter gear. I guess there is no kid like an old kid.

Originally Posted (Jul 01, 2002)

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