Snow has all the animals acting crazy, human animals included. We don’t get snow very often in Seattle so when enough collects on the ground, “it’s like people got hit with stupid,” as a woman on the country radio station snarled this morning, “they forget how to drive.” Occasionally I need to change the station from the Mountain to the Wolf for just such pearls of wisdom. Yesterday buses overturned, cars slid into each other and were abandoned on the side of the road. We’re not prepared here. Apparently we sold most of our snow plows to Canada a few years ago because some knucklehead in charge thought we wouldn’t need them again since winters had become increasingly mild. It’s snowed at least once every year since, paralyzing the city each time because we don’t have enough plows. We have lots of hills, and snow that turns to slush during the day, then freezes into sheets of ice at night, which makes driving tricky unless you have four wheel drive. Many are stuck until the snow melts, which generally only lasts a few days, but from the dramatic reaction of local weathermen you would think a few inches of snow was a national disaster. At least we are using salt on the ice this year. To be more eco-friendly we used dirt last year, so much dirt that it clogged up all the drains and cost the city a fortune to clean up, probably harming the environment worse than the salt.
The kids came home from school the first day it started snowing and said that even the squirrels were acting stupid. Apparently one froze in the road, confused, not moving even as the car drove up close. That sparked a debate on animal instincts and whether they can predict earthquakes etc., information I’m sure gleaned from Animal Planet. Then my middle daughter said, “I had a feeling it was going to snow. I sensed it.” “Well humans are animals,” I said dryly, “maybe you haven’t lost all of your survival instincts.” That made her pause for a second, at which opportunity I escaped the kitchen. As I walked into the hall I could see the cat outside, walking around on the ice covering the fountain, looking for a drink. And this is one of our smarter pets. Apparently her senses weren’t as heightened as my daughter’s. After all she is domesticated, and uses the toilet as an alternate source of water.
The kids are in heaven though. “Snow day” is one of their favorite phrases. This storm came at a particularly convenient time for them, during finals before Thanksgiving break. They don’t even have to make them up unless they think the exam would “positively change their grade” in that class. Funny how their grades are all of a sudden “good enough”. So out they went, wearing a mishmash of winter clothing they found in the basement ski bags. The two oldest are past the “build a snowman in the front yard” phase, preferring to find their friends and look for trouble. They informed me last night that they were going to snowball cars. “Bad choice!” I yelled as they left. My youngest and I walked the dogs around the neighborhood and she stopped to make a snow angel, still young enough for that innocent pleasure. The dogs LOVE the snow as much as the kids, chasing each other around the streets like whirling dervishes, clouds of white billowing off of them as they play.
I love the snow too, but having the kids home unexpectedly always throws a wrench in the day. It’s not just the noise or the mess, but the weekend hours coming after a weekend is exhausting. I look forward to school nights and early bedtimes, early as in before midnight. And providing food for three teenagers and all their friends every time they come in the house, then constantly badgering them to clean up after themselves gets very old. I hate the sound I make, the nagging, the “I’m not your maid!” refrain, feeling every bit the fun killer they’ve dubbed me. But they come in tracking snow, shedding clothes like a dog shaking off water, gear flying in all directions. Then they buzz through the kitchen and pantry like a plague of locusts, devouring everything no matter how well I shop. If I’m not prepared, sometimes even old cans of soup and stale crackers get eaten by some of the hungrier boys, which is a bonus, but mostly there are half drunk mugs of tea and cocoa left out, along with Halloween candy wrappers and cookie boxes and tangerine peels and plates crusted with the remains of microwaved lasagna or a pot on the stove holding a teaspoon of top ramen, their excuse at not washing it that someone might have wanted the leftovers. Only my youngest has figured out how to avoid my wrath at these times, sneaking her friends in while I’m out, saying to them grimly, “it’s fine if we eat lunch at my house, as long as we’re gone before she gets home and we clean everything up.” The only evidence that they were in the kitchen at all is a few crumbs on the counter and dishes drying on a towel. At least those kids have figured it out, whether out of respect or fear is completely irrelevant to me. I never thought I would wish for rain.
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