This is the new view of the lake from our beach. Sweet Potato said, "I can't believe we ever swam in there," and that was before it was buried in snow. I can't believe we'll ever swim in there again.The flakes started to fall this afternoon just as our leaf guy finished de-leafing the yard. That was lucky. No leaf muck to clean up in the spring! Every time it snows I think, This is it! I'm not going to see the ground again until May. Then it melts. I think the weather goddesses are easing me into this whole snow thing.
We took Buckaroo out for a snowy walk down to the dam. He liked it until he refused to wear his mittens and his hands froze, and then he cried because he was cold but didn't want to go inside to thaw. He likes the book, The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats, especially the part where Peter knocks a tree with a stick and the snow plops onto his red hoodie.
I have to say he did look a bit like Peter out there today. "He walked with his toes pointing in like this. He walked with his toes pointing out like that," we repeated to him as he waddled along.To coax him back to the house we made up new lyrics to "Five Little Duckies": "Five little duckies waddled through the snow one day, over the hill and far away, Mama Duck cried, 'quack, quack, quack, quack,' but only four little duckies came skating back." If you've never heard that particular Raffi song, don't worry. It has a happy ending.
In other news, my first New England T-Day was a success, except that not everyone serves yams at Thanksgiving. I didn't know that. I thought yams were a T-Day staple, right up there with the bird and the stuffins. If I had known we'd be yamless I would have offered to bring my own.
Also, not everyone serves whipped cream with apple and pumpkin pie. As far as I'm concerned, without whippy, there is no point.
Next year I'll be prepared for these things. There's always a learning curve.
Here's the craziest thing: I had to say grace-- me, probably the least religious person at the table, saying grace. R's mom clearly wanted it to be said but wouldn't say it herself, and no one else would offer it up, so there I was, all "Dear Heavenly Father." Just for the record, my god is not a father because, ya know, I have issues with fathers. So I guess in addition to being the biggest heathen at the table, that makes me the most polite.
Oh, and we talked to Obo! I said, "Aren't you glad we stole this land away from the Native Americans so you could come and visit us in the summer?" He said yes. He didn't say much more than that, but he giggled a lot, which was a very good sound.
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