Dashing through the snow: Tradition gets cold
Serves me right for amping up the importance of tradition. My brother-in-law reminded me of a little Christmas custom that requires a few drinks before hand. No, not a solo Ave Maria karaoke, although perhaps more uncomfortable, I am of course referring to the barefoot dash around the house. I rolled up my pants and stared at the three foot snow bank outside. Wait, one more drink. OK. We agreed the solid ice drive-way would be a challenge, “Go slow.” Um, right.
It is not a big house, but on the backside the snow gobbled me up to my hips and my feet hurt! OUCH! Not much of a race either, my brother-in-law, a Canadian post man, clearly has more snow experience than me. He was gone, quickly, gone. Just a flash really and I was alone in the deep snow, screaming and laughing. That laugh naturally meant, “&***-ing $***!” A pile of white towels laid at the doorstep welcomed us back. I wrapped up my tootsies and told them I was sorry. There must have been a lot ice in the snow because we were both bleeding from frosty cuts. Ah good fun, sorry also to the white towels.
Very invigorating for the feet. I am thinking of opening a spa here in the snow globe and offering exotic arctic foot treatments. I suppose I could easily put any other body part on the menu too.
On a different exposure note, to polish up the splendid turkey filled evening, seven grandchildren received cozy PJ’s from Gramma& Poppa. Five of them, including both of mine, shed said fleecies and streaked the house in loopy-loops for twenty minutes. Since my two are not potty-trained it was extra exciting. Nothing like Russian Poo-let on Christmas Day. Or as the wise-man said, “Ah, the Canadian Ballet!”
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