And the snow came. . . and the natives rejoiced

For a month we have watched snow storms pass us to the north, maneuver around us to the south or simply run out of steam before the flakes even reached us.

This has frustrated my dear Cynical to the point where I expect him to run out the front door shaking his fists at the sky. You see, my beloved loves fluffy white snow. When we first met, he used to make snow cream, but after too much internet surfing, he learned that the stuff is toxic, so now he just dreams of it.

This morning whenever I awoke, I knew it was snowing even before I looked out the window. There was that peaceful quiet that accompanies a snowfall. I made my way downstairs and laid on the couch in the darkness, watching the flakes as they passed through the glow of the street light.

Cynical soon bounded into the room like a kid on Christmas morning, pleased that finally it had happened, finally it had snowed.

We got up much earlier than usual and found ourselves gazing as the snow picked up and lessened again. Eventually Cynical made his home on the couch and after making the bed, I made my place on the bed, knitting and watching "Clean Sweep", each of us with a view of the white stuff. We made breakfast and milled around the house, pretending that we were snowbound.

I used to take a walk each snow. I loved being out in it, listening to it crunch beneath my feet, watching as it outlined trees and houses, smelling the freshness.

I try to talk Cynical into venturing out, but he always gives me a look that says, "She's crazy, crazy, crazy." So, we don't usually go.

Today, however, we bound ourselves up in warm clothes: me in my handknits and Cynical once again shirking an opportunity to wear the knitted items I have made him. And we headed out. We were alone as we followed the tire tracks already cutting through the fresh snow. But it was quiet and bright and marvelous.

Eventually the cold wind blew a chill into each of us. We re-entered the house with rosy cheeks and wet shoes.

A hair appointment interupted our elected seclusion. I trekked across town, and knitted on my final Jaywalker sock as she brushed, dyed, dryed and trimmed my hair. It was quite a visit as I must admit that I had gone much too long between appointments and I was in dire need of professional assistance.

I left sans my roots, with too much hair product and a lighter wallet, but pleased and feeling more like myself.

And, so was our Saturday.