More is not necessarily better. — me
This weekend, Central Illinois was scheduled to get “a little snow.”
That’s what the meteorologists at the TV station told us anyway. One to three inches, tops.
I guess they have no shame, for by the time this “snow event” was finished, we had a good four inches on the ground. Fat, wet flakes that drifted and blew in from a southerly direction, blanketing yards, roads, trees, and whatever else was outdoors.
See for yourselves:
Yes, it’s pretty. Well, it is when it appears the week before Christmas and departs the week after New Year’s. Three weeks is about all the snow I care to “enjoy” these days.
Not that I particularly enjoyed it even as a kid.
I remember my mom bundling us up, sending us outside, then rolling her eyes in exasperation when our freezing selves reappeared at the door, ready to come back inside after less than a half-hour!
This year, I felt most sorry for local restaurants. They advertised Valentine’s Day specials, accepted reservations, and waited to fill their tables with patrons who surely opted to order in a pizza instead.
And since the kids were out of school for Presidents’ Day, the street department obviously didn’t feel too inclined to plow the roads, assuming most people could just stay home.
But perhaps the saddest of all are those, like me, who own long-haired dogs. Dogs that have to go outside in all that snow periodically. Dogs who love to roll in the cold, white stuff, collecting snowballs on their furs and bringing them inside to melt: