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Dear Kids, I broke the news to the Santas and the Snowmen today. Told them–ever so gently–that you would not be coming home for Christmas this year.
You would never believe what happened next! They jumped off their tic-tac-toe red and white Christmas board and marched toward the front door. Every last one of them. We stood shocked in disbelief! What were the Santas and the Snowmen going to do?
We know, don’t we, that these particular Santas and Snowmen have a history of unpredictability. They are always doing something wild and crazy. Ever since I won them in that Christmas raffle at Aura a few years back, they have been keeping us on our toes! Odd things happen all the time, don’t they?
Remember the time when they all looked like they were going to commit suicide jumping off the table in the living room. A few of them lay helter-skelter on the carpeted floor beneath their kamikaze jumping place. Remember how we laughed? How we laughed until we almost cried? (Silly Santas and Snowmen! What kind of holiday spirit was that?)
Then remember how every year the darn fellows appeared somewhere else? One year they climbed near the ceiling and sat way up high near the plants. Haven’t they been discovered in the bathtub, in the refrigerator, and a half-dozen other crazy places? Maybe they’ve even been outside before.
But I wasn’t expecting their behavior this afternoon. They simply all stood up and silently marched outside.
Down the porch steps they marched in single file. Out into the snow. Toward the cars! Were they deserting us forever? Just because you both aren’t coming home for Christmas? The very first Christmas when BOTH of you won’t be with us?
I tried to get the leader to talk. He was a Santa. “Where are you going?” I begged, “Please come back!” But on they marched. “Next year maybe they’ll be home for Christmas!” I hollered after them. They refused to look back.
Perhaps they are walking to Manhattan and San Diego. Perhaps they have booked airline tickets. It’s hard to say what these Santas and Snowmen will do. I just wanted you to be the first to know that you’re obviously going to be very much missed this year, you kids.
Even the Santas and Snowmen think so.
It’s snowing again! You guessed that, right? A lovely late February snowstorm to keep us amused and entertained yet again by snowflakes, snowdrifts, blowing snow and sideways snow.
At least the snow (four to five inches so far? six? seven? who can tell when it’s dark outside?) covers up the icy driveways and sidewalks that kept people praying for upright balance today.
I waited to go outside until after dark. About the time the snowstorm built into some intensity. I stay inside far too often at night. Only once (after the first night solstice fire) during this outdoor commitment have I ventured outdoors at night. Tonight insisted upon compliance.
On went the snowmobile suit, hat, mittens, scarf, boots (you know the routine by now, don’t you?) and the search around the house for the camera. It’s becoming an appendage. One doesn’t dare go outside without the camera, for you never know what interesting opportunity lurks behind the next tree or ravine.
Looks like a snowball is being delivered in that mailbox picture, doesn’t it? I must say it’s interesting to wander around in the dark in a snowstorm. You can hardly determine that it’s actually snowing with your sight. Since it’s pitch dark, the only indication of snow is the sprinkling of wet on your face and cheeks. If you wear glasses, you get a sense of blurriness in the dark as your glasses cover with heavy wet flakes.
If you’re unfamiliar with the terrain, watch out. I only tripped once, near the woodpile, but did not fall. I wandered through the snow to the left, to the right, to the back, to the front. Listened for sounds. No animals hooting or howling or pawing or scurrying. Only the sound of distant trucks and the snow pattering like tiny icy pellets.
The spruce tree branches looked like arms reaching out into the night, long fingers stretching out toward the innocent passerby. I wanted to capture a photo of that sense of the tree limbs spreading out, somehow communicating. It’s strange how the darkness elongates everything, especially the imagination!
When I found myself staring longingly at the house, taking photos of the warm glow from within, I said goodnight to the darkness and came inside, shaking snow all over the floor and carpeting. Goodnight, everyone!