My Foot (or two) Fetish

NOAA swears it's coming: One to two feet of snow for our county, elevation, and town.

Last year, I was swearing at NOAA. You see, they forecasted a few inches here and there--sometimes double-digits--and it never came. Never. Winter lost our address last time around.

Now, it's personal. All those snow toys Santa brought--the boards, the sleds, the mini-snowmobile, the snow-shoes--have yet to get their test run. They've spent nine months buried in the garage, yearning. Woody the curly cocker is beside himself because he LOVES the snow. Rosie the shih-tzu is thrilled because she hates it. My new tree farm and all the new front yard "children" could certainly use a good heavy, wet snow to help put them to bed--a good bed-wetting--for the winter. And craziest of all, I miss the stuff!

When I first moved here back in the mid-90s, I was enamored of the snowfalls, especially the big ones. I used to keep a count of the inches on a calendar. (Last year we hit a whopping 15 at most. Our average should be around 100.) Then I went through a phase where the snow had "delighted me long enough" in the words of Jane Austen, and I was tired of driving in it. We moved to NorCal soon after. Two-plus years later we moved back home and got some snow, but not a normal amount. Then there was last year, as I've already elucidated.

So today, with a hopeful heart, I will clear out space for hubby's truck in the garage, I will look for the camping pots in case I need to cook on the gas stove (or in the fireplace). I will keep a flashlight close at hand and move the plants away from the windows. (We're expecting lows in the teens or less.) I'll run the dishwasher and do a few loads of clothes. I'll charge up the cell phone and move a lot of wood from the woodpile into the garage.

And, if the weather prophets do not disappoint this time, I'll drag out those lonely, purposeless snow toys. If I can remember where I put them, that is.