Mulling things on my morning ramble with Storm, the family's mixed Lab.
When I started work at 4:30 this morning, the roads were only wet with light rain.
An hour or so later, I thought, ``It's awfully bright out for 6.''
Looked out the window, and it was snowing so hard I could barely see to the end of the street. Everything was already white, even the street.
It was beautiful.
So I hurried the meathead out the door to enjoy.
And we did.
In a little over an hour, about an inch was on the ground and the snow--the big, wet fluffy kind--continued to come down.
Yesterday afternoon, I told the kids, this is your best shot at a decent snow until well into 2012. Even if it comes, I warned, it won't be much.
My daughter said, ``Just so we get enough to make snowballs.''
Well, there's enough for that. And it is the perfect snowball kind of snow: thick and wet.
It's so wet that my footsteps crunched when Storm and I walked out of town.
Somewhere on the edge of a cornfield, I heard the whine of a snowmobile blasting across a distant field.
I couldn't believe it. That's somebody desperate to snowmobile. Maybe an inch of snow, and they were flying across the fields.
When the meathead and I set out, visibility was under half a mile.
By the time, we made it back into town, it had lightened up considerably, but the big fluffy flakes floated down under the street lights in a scene that should have come two days earlier on Christmas.
You know, postcard snow.
The wet snow bowed the heads of the sunflowers in my wife's front flower garden.