Under a blanket of white

Catherine, age 6; me; and a seasonal friend. Snowman gear made by Grandma and Grandpa. This was NOT the year Basil decided the snowman’s wardrobe needed a cold beer.

Two weeks before Thanksgiving and already there’s snow here in southwestern Connecticut — a freak winter storm just 10 days after a devastating hurricane.

Mother Nature must really have her knickers in a twist.

As a rule,  I like the snow — certainly better than the heat of summer. This makes me odd, I know, but now that I endeavor to live out loud, I don’t much care if I’m odd.

Just a few years ago, even the mere prospect of snow would have sent Catherine through that crazy nighttime ritual, you know the one with the ice in the toilet, the spoon under the pillow and the inside-out pajamas. And the next day, we would have been in the yard making angels, colored-ice forts, trying for a snowman.

This morning, however, the fat white flakes had a different effect: Catherine got out of bed, came downstairs and asked me to wake her up again in 90 minutes since school had a two-hour delay. Then she traipsed back to her room, got under the warm covers and went right back to sleep.