It had been snow-storming for two days. A good ten inches had come flake by delicate flake – art falling from the sky. How beautifully extravagant. And we watched from the warm. We watched through our windows as huge sheets of icy snow skated in thunderous slides off the tin roof, landing in heaps on top of heaps.
We made coffee.
We talked of snowboarding and skiing the fresh powder up the mountain. Maybe in the afternoon, we would. But then, the UPS guy came, wallowing through the snow to the door with a package under his arm. Said wading through it to doorsteps had been easier than driving the brown truck across the snow-filled roads that day. Said without saying that he wouldn’t drive up the mountain if he were us. Better let the snowplows catch up.
Boys bundled up and shoveled paths and chipped ice and snow from the porch steps.
Mama made popcorn in the middle of the morning.
We read about the Trail of Tears and the Underground Railroad. Two boys played a math game on the floor; another one floated an egg in saltwater. We all recited Longfellow’s The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere. And those new drawing books proved to be just the thing for these snow-filled days.
When the dusk of evening came, and Mama was busy quick-painting one more coat on the newly installed closet cabinets, a boy poked his head into the room and asked if he could make scrambled eggs for dinner. Ah, yes, thank you. And did he – fluffy, moist scrambled eggs, seasoned deliciously (he likes to sprinkle in all sorts of things from the spice cabinet), with toast and milk.
You could say he inspired me, as I followed suit the next evening with a second breakfast-for-dinner in so many days. Waffles. With fried eggs and Real Maple Syrup. Sitting around the table with the beeswax burning, boys loaded their plates. Two preferred to eat theirs one at a time; the other? He stacked his 5 high.
And outside it snowed.
And the north wind blew.
And the shoveled paths would be filled in by morning.