LET IT SNOW

by Deborah Elliott-Upton

Practically anyone who knows me knows I am a perennial lover of springtime weather. I don’t just dislike snow days, I loathe them. We’re in the midst of a Winter Wonderland weather where I live. Only forget the wonderland part. Outside is picture postcard perfect for a White Christmas card or a ski lodge advertisement. So much snow has fallen, the drifts are covered by drifts. I think I have a mailbox out there somewhere. It’s on a post, but the post is white and I haven’t seen it for two days now. I already had cabin fever by the time the ground was finding itself covered like a delicate lace doily.

It does look pretty, but the snow is like jail bars trapping me inside when I’d rather head out to a coffee shop, meet friends for lunch or even duck inside a charming antique store or two. Okay, I admit I am not the outdoors type. I’m never going to willingly hike, careen with nature or go on weeklong camping trips. Usually, I enjoy being at home. I don’t enjoy being forced to be home. There’s a difference.

I’m blessed that I don’t have to go out in the mess to get to work. I can sit in my cozy office (by the way, “cozy” is synonymous with “small” in real estate lingo.) Still, it’s mine and usually, hours disappear like vapors while I am in my chair typing away at the keyboard writing about spies in Tahiti or an escaped prisoner in the middle of a blizzard.

But that’s when I know I could go somewhere if I wanted. Being snowbound is like having your car in the shop; you are not free to move about the country.

I stand at the door and watch my husband happily helping the elderly neighbors next door with his trusty snow blower. He says they need to have a safer walkway. He’s like that. Cheerful even when the temperatures have taken a decided dip into the nether regions on the thermostat. He’s donned a red plaid flannel coat with Sherpa lining and a furry hat with flaps like the one Elmer Fudd wears. He looks adorable in his I-don’t-care-what-Tim Gunn-would-say attire. (Of course, he has no idea who Tim Gunn is at all.) I try to smile, but find my mouth is frozen and my chin quivering. I need more coffee and a sweater. I also dig out a pair of my husband’s hunters’ socks which help tremendously. I imagine I am a perfect model for the “Don’ts” section of Glamour magazine. At least, I’m staying inside where no one will see me. Maybe because I do know who Tim Gunn is and what he’d say.

I head to my office and close the door behind me. I have to do this or our two cats will follow me into the room. Our previous cat, Ursula, used to sit on the other chair and sleep while I wrote. These two are more of the adventurous types and still kittens. One is content to perch on the headrest of my chair and slap his tail repeatedly across the back of my neck to keep me at my task. The other, our female, likes the keyboard and walking across it. Occasionally tapping more than one key at a time with a paw interests her. She has put my computer into a reconfigured mode more than once. So, now I shut the door behind me, which makes it seem a bit claustrophobic until I get into the rhythm of writing and forget my surroundings.

The snow blower noise interrupts my thoughts as my husband edges closer to the office window, then drifts away as he moves from the veranda (it’s actually a porch, but the realtor once called it a veranda, so I’m choosing to use his terms that sound better on paper.) The noises begin to disappear and I wonder if he’s finished or is taking a break.

I glance out the window, but the stark whiteness blinds me. I make out a slight path where the snow has billowed up along the sidewalk. Piled up, the snow looks even more depressing, so I scurry back to my computer.

The cursor blinks like a warning stoplight reminding me I have a deadline to meet. I start writing, but remember why winter seems the longest season, the extra heating expense on next month’s bill and whether I have enough cat food.

I decide to think positively. We are safe within a house that does have heat and food and electricity. The farmers need moisture. The weathermen are ecstatic when the snow is falling and lightening is striking simultaneously.

My husband loves that we live in a place where there are four seasons, but then, he seems way too cheerful most of the time anyway. I guess that makes me the grumpy one in the family. He’s Kelly Ripa and I’m Regis Philbin in this relationship. At least, while it’s snowing.

If searing temperatures bring out more criminal activity in the summer, why can’t some people who don’t like the cold become just as violent during dreary, depressing winter days with gray skies? Back at the computer, I begin typing. One word leads to another and paragraphs form. My characters are skipping through my imagination in their own Winter Wonderland. Most of the small town citizens are having a great time. Except for one. He’s not having fun at all. He will be my villain. I consider that maybe he’s not all bad, just cold. Something has caused his frozen heart to chill his morals enough to accept murder as the only valid answer to his problem. So bitterly cold to the world, he’ll make a deliciously hot villain.

I’m feeling better already. Not quite ready to embrace the freezing weather, I do find my lips have thawed and my smile has returned. I feel like a realtor who’s just unloaded a fixer-upper (realtor slang for dump.)

Let it snow. I’ve got my love to keep me warm. If only, he’ll lose that hat.