When we were living out on the Correction Line 20 miles southeast of Burlington back in the Fifties, I can remember so much time spent waiting on white to go away so we could get the vehicles out and break through snowdrifts that clogged the high-grade dirt roads to our farmhouse.
Back then, I guess it was more like waiting on brown/white . . . if the truth be known. The dirt blew something awful and snow did not come down as snow but a combination. We called it "snirt" . . . and it was.
When drifts finally began to melt, there was no more white at all. Just dark brown topsoil darkened by the wet, melting snow underneath.
And my family wonders why I don't want any brown in my house.
Now we're waiting on white to leave Burlington for Colorado Springs and a Christmas weekend together before we go our separate ways.
No dirt in this snow.
It's white . . . blinding white.
So that would make it . . . a white Christmas.
Am I right?
Eat your heart out, Bing.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment