The weather this weekend was such a tease. Not the biting cold, or the wind that threatened to knock you over, but the snow – if you can even call it that.
Admittedly, snow and I have kind of a love/hate relationship: I love it when it gets me out of work and I can simply enjoy it (and maybe make the occasional snow angel). I hate it when I have to drive in it, or when I’m walking back from the metro. And the sidewalks aren’t salted. And I slip and fall on my ass and freeze the rest of the way home. Not. Fun.
But, when all is said and done, I do miss true snowfalls. When the inches settle and you put on as many layers as you can manage, while still being able to move (or waddle, as the case may be). I miss the snowball fights and playing “king of the hill,” which eventually devolved into everyone just tackling one another. And I miss going sledding.
When I was growing up, we had a dog, Andy, who was a mix of Siberian husky and German shepherd. He was beautiful. And, after seeing Iron Will, my brother and I had the brilliant idea that because Andy looked like a sled dog, then he must want to pull us around in a sled.
So we got a harness. We attached to the sled. We sat, and started yelling, “Mush!”
Andy was not amused.
He turned, looked at us, and promptly laid down in the snow. We gave it one more shot and realized that there was no way in hell Andy would consent to pulling us around, when he could be off frolicking in the snow, himself. Fair enough.
I’m in no way optimistic that there will be enough (if any) snow on the ground to go sledding when I go back to Philly for Christmas. And I’m even less optimistic that my brother would want to sled with me again – especially considering this photo my mother sent me:
That’s Mama, me, and Jud. I like to think I was protecting him – holding on tight so that he wouldn’t fall off the sled. However, general consensus is that I was clotheslining him. That might well be more accurate – and the reason that anytime we went sledding thereafter, he made me sit up front.