It is suddenly, unexpectedly, pouring snow here today. I’m in the den curled up under a blanket where I can watch the flakes fall on the other side of the French doors. Coffee by my side. But I’m not really here.
I’m in rural Lincoln County, 25 years ago, sitting on my grandma’s sofa looking out her glass storm door. There’s still coffee (there was ALWAYS coffee) but the view is better. The shrubs that separate her long driveway from the cattle pasture are catching the white puffs and the yard is yards of uninterrupted white. Once the snow lets up she’ll throw some bird seed from the covered porch, because let’s think about this, nothing is prettier than a brightly colored bird snacking on a pretty white yard.
In a few minutes we’ll stuff our feet into boots and wrap up in some of the old coats stuffed into the back porch closet. Most of them smell like feed and sweat and fresh air, which is to say they all smell like Grandpa. We’ll bundle up in that protection to head out to gather a big bowl of snow for ice cream.
The day is simple and comforting. I’m glad I can remember it.
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