Ah, winter and snow, that lovely crystalline stuff that skiers drool over. Not that it isn't a great subject for photography, of course. Once, in the news from Lake Woebegone, Garrison Keillor pointed out that winter was that time of year, when so much had been taken away, that what was left was even more beautiful. I, too, try to cultivate that awareness as I shovel the snow, and realize this is good exercise without having to pay a Gold Gym fee, even as the local clinic sends me newsletters warning me of the increased risk of heart attacks by oldsters like myself who shovel snow.
I remember, when I was about 12, one winter in Seattle that a few more than four inches of snow fell, and I was drooling with anticipation and joy and making myself quite excited. My dad growled and told me to shut up as he worried his driving skills wouldn't let him go to work the next day. Old Grouch, I thought.
Now, the Bhuddist in me continues the awareness of the miracle of each little crystalline hexagon drifting from the sky, while my pragmatic fogie voice looks at the tread on the tire, and the broken linch pin on my snow blower.
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