Did I mention it snowed yesterday? It started before we awoke, before the sun even came up, and it persisted through the morning in a steady dusty fall, inch upon inch. We got in the car as we do every Friday morning to drive Marcela to the train station. The snow continued to fall. We made our way out of our neighborhood and onto Main Street. The snow was really coming down. The plows hadn't been out yet and it was already 8:30 in the morning.
As we inched toward the train station we decided it wasn't going to stop snowing any time soon and that it was probably too dangerous to be out driving. We turned around for home, stopping by the supermarket on the way. We also stopped at the five and dime to replace Maxim's tiara, which had broken on Thursday. We drove home very slowy. We were supposed to get a major snow earlier in the week. Every news station warned about it, some schools in Massachusetts even closed in anticipation of it. Then it didn't come. The snow and weather skirted south of us. In response, none of the local news stations made too very much of a big deal about yesterday's incoming snow, even though it packed an even bigger punch. No one
seemed prepared. Just after lunch, I tried to get the kids outside, but Noah would have none of it. So I took Maxim and Catherine only. I cleaned snow from around our doors and along the side of our house and our car while Maxim and Catherine cleared large areas of snow from Catherine's back yard and tried to build a snow fort. We worked and played outside for about an hour, maybe more, and then the snow really started getting strong, blinding us. "Who wants to go inside for hot cocoa?" I asked. Both girls accepted the offer and came inside. When we entered the house, the front and back stairs and the entire car and space around the parking area were clear of snow.
Outside it became a white out. You could barely see the house behind ours through the snow. "That's quite a storm," I kept saying, as if no one else noticed. "It's really coming down out there. Would you look at all that snow?" "It's a lot." Marcela would affirm. "Can I go back outside and play?" Maxim would ask. "Please? Please, Daddy, please?" The snow kept coming down, layer after layer in rapid succession. "Look at all that snow. It's like the Pleistocene never ended...well, of course, it hasn't...but I mean, it's like the glaciers are on their way back." "What are you talking about Daddy?" "There's a lot of snow, sweetie." "Can I have a bowl of snow with maple syrup, Daddy?"
I get her one and then we build a big tent in the livingroom where I ask her to lay down. "I don't want to sleep, Daddy." "I know, sweetie. You don't have to. Just lie down a little." Within ten minutes she is asleep. They are good kids, Maxim and Noah. I guess, though, that is what all parents think about their children. They are all good kids. How can you not love them? We look at our children and feel this love without even trying. I see their every move as somehow beautiful. In an earlier time I might have sneered at such sentiments, at such sentimentality. But now, there it is. There are Noah and Maxim, my children.
Young lives who depend upon me, who feed on my presence and mimic my actions, whose introduction to life and the world is mediated by my choices right now. It is an enormous responsibility, one that I reflect upon every day. When the snow ended, as it finally did at 4:00 p.m., the western sky opened just before el sol dipped behind the trees. Outside, the street and the walkway and everything else I had shoveled clear earlier was covered in six or more inches of snow. There was work to be done, but we were treated to a stunning sunset and the quieter calm of cold, high-pressure air. How much snow? Look at the cedar bush in the upper right hand corner of the three backyard photographs above.
Did I mention it snowed yesterday? It started before we awoke, before the sun even came up, and it persisted through the morning in a steady dusty fall, inch upon inch. We got in the car as we do every Friday morning to drive Marcela to the train station. The snow continued to fall. We made our way out of our neighborhood and onto Main Street. The snow was really coming down. The plows hadn't been out yet and it was already 8:30 in the morning. 
As we inched toward the train station we decided it wasn't going to stop snowing any time soon and that it was probably too dangerous to be out driving. We turned around for home, stopping by the supermarket on the way. We also stopped at the five and dime to replace Maxim's tiara, which had broken on Thursday. We drove home very slowy. We were supposed to get a major snow earlier in the week. Every news station warned about it, some schools in Massachusetts even closed in anticipation of it. Then it didn't come. The snow and weather skirted south of us. In response, none of the local news stations made too very much of a big deal about yesterday's incoming snow, even though it packed an even bigger punch. No one
seemed prepared. Just after lunch, I tried to get the kids outside, but Noah would have none of it. So I took Maxim and Catherine only. I cleaned snow from around our doors and along the side of our house and our car while Maxim and Catherine cleared large areas of snow from Catherine's back yard and tried to build a snow fort. We worked and played outside for about an hour, maybe more, and then the snow really started getting strong, blinding us. "Who wants to go inside for hot cocoa?" I asked. Both girls accepted the offer and came inside. When we entered the house, the front and back stairs and the entire car and space around the parking area were clear of snow.
Outside it became a white out. You could barely see the house behind ours through the snow. "That's quite a storm," I kept saying, as if no one else noticed. "It's really coming down out there. Would you look at all that snow?" "It's a lot." Marcela would affirm. "Can I go back outside and play?" Maxim would ask. "Please? Please, Daddy, please?" The snow kept coming down, layer after layer in rapid succession. "Look at all that snow. It's like the Pleistocene never ended...well, of course, it hasn't...but I mean, it's like the glaciers are on their way back." "What are you talking about Daddy?" "There's a lot of snow, sweetie." "Can I have a bowl of snow with maple syrup, Daddy?"
I get her one and then we build a big tent in the livingroom where I ask her to lay down. "I don't want to sleep, Daddy." "I know, sweetie. You don't have to. Just lie down a little." Within ten minutes she is asleep. They are good kids, Maxim and Noah. I guess, though, that is what all parents think about their children. They are all good kids. How can you not love them? We look at our children and feel this love without even trying. I see their every move as somehow beautiful. In an earlier time I might have sneered at such sentiments, at such sentimentality. But now, there it is. There are Noah and Maxim, my children. 
Young lives who depend upon me, who feed on my presence and mimic my actions, whose introduction to life and the world is mediated by my choices right now. It is an enormous responsibility, one that I reflect upon every day. When the snow ended, as it finally did at 4:00 p.m., the western sky opened just before el sol dipped behind the trees. Outside, the street and the walkway and everything else I had shoveled clear earlier was covered in six or more inches of snow. There was work to be done, but we were treated to a stunning sunset and the quieter calm of cold, high-pressure air. How much snow? Look at the cedar bush in the upper right hand corner of the three backyard photographs above.
1 comment:
A beautiful entry.
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