We usually have a "snowstorm" here once a year, consisting of about an inch of snow, which I'm sure makes the Northeast crowd green with envy. The childlike part of me misses their kind of snow. Yeah, you have to shovel it, and I'm so overweight I'd probably have a heart attack after the fifth or sixth shovelful. And it's a pain to drive in because some people just can't get "go slower and more carefully" through their birdbrains.

But snow is nice, and it's fun, too. I don't get people who think standing around in the sun in eighty degree temperatures is fun. All bright sun does for me is give me a headache and hot days leach the energy right out of my body. Heck, it went up to sixty last Saturday and by the time I got home I was hot, tired, cranky, and dehydrated.

Well, we had the annual snowstorm today (going to be in the sixties over the weekend, so it's truly the "last gasp" of winter), had a late start at work, and, even with what little snow we had, I couldn't resist taking Willow into the back yard (there's a cat rooming under our shed; it absorbed her for ten minutes) and tramping through the thin crust. I always loved going out after a snowstorm and tramping around. When I was little I'd make trails with my boots in the back yard and then gallop around on my stick horse Whinney from "town" to "town," like Johnny Tremain carrying postbags on Goblin. As I got older I liked to go across the street into the ballfield, which was just bare ground and not developed with a walking track and lights and a fence like it is now. Back then it had a few more trees, and you could see the tracks of squirrels in the snow. Sometimes I'd tramp all the way out (without telling my mother, of course) to the railroad tracks and look at the pictures the snow had made of ugly switches and metal rails.

When I was tired and wet enough I'd come in, most of the time have to change clothes, and sit in the nice warm kitchen in my stocking feet. Mom would make hot tea for herself and Nestles Quik for me and we'd sit and sip and maybe watch the birds outside the kitchen window arguing over the stale bread Mom had crumbled up and tossed on the snow.

It was nice. I would have liked to have stayed home today and watched the birds at the feeder. About eight we had two chickadees, always the brave ones who sample first, and Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal. I don't know how well they came out, since I had the dog leash in one hand and the camera in the other, but I got a picture of Mr. Cardinal on the bird feeder, and on the maple tree branch next to the bird feeder. He sure is pretty--his wings seem to have turned dark for the winter, but the rest of him is a bright bright crimson.

As pretty as Mr. C is, I love the chickadees best. I love all the little birds, sparrows and wrens and tits and nuthatches as well, but the chickadees have attitude. I love it. "I'm the birdie. I'm in charge here. What's that? Food! Me first!"

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. . . . . noted and logged by Linda at 12:03:00 PM

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