The sun came out this afternoon for a little while, and the river below my house shone brightly in silver-blue, running low, cold and clear.
The temperature climbed reluctantly out of water-pipe-freezing, single-digit misery into just-plain seasonably, reasonably, cold. Snow is predicted, but no one's concerned. We're ready: Snow tires on, extra weight added to pickup beds, wood all in, outdoor water bowl for dogs filled and plugged in, furnace filter changed, water to standpipes turned off, drafty windows sealed tight, bird feeders filled, and freezeable fluids in the trucks changed.
Part of the beauty of living here in this nordic country is the guarantee of a white Christmas nearly every year. For the little kids and all the rest of us who fondly remember snow from our childhoods, it's a big deal when it first starts to come down hard and stick. It's a time of celebration for skiiers, snowmobilers, snowboarders, sledders and all others who love to play in the white, wet, cold, fluffy stuff. By March, everyones' enthusiasm will have ebbed, but for now, it's all fun.
I'll even be happy this time to watch the weird, pointy-headed Phineas and Ferb with her, so aware am I now of the Big Picture and the rapid passage of precious time. And we can talk about Grandpa now, too, if she wants. I'm ready.
When Hurricane Anna arrives, she's going to blow the biggest and best breath of fresh air into this house we've had in a long time. And not a moment too soon. Thank you, dear God, for Anna.
So bring on the snow and roll out the cookie dough. They say Santa's on his way.