The weatherman predicted on Thursday, and again Friday morning, that the first significant snow fall would descend sometime on Friday. I stopped on my way home from work Thursday to purchase mittens, gloves, and some needed baking supplies. If we were going to get three to six inches of snow, I wanted to be able to bake. On Friday evening, however, when I took the dog out after supper, the snow hadn't started. (Sometimes I wish I had decided to go into meteorology so I could make the wrong predictions most of the time and still have a job.)
As the evening progressed, I kept in touch with my hubby who was on his way home from New York. (He's a truck driver.) When he finally called to tell me he was three miles from the truck stop, I pulled on my shoes, threw on my jacket, and shoved my hands into my gloves. As the headlights pierced the night sky, they revealed a light snow descending from the sky. It had indeed started, and I was much relieved that my husband was not going to be driving into the storm.
When I awoke Saturday, my hot tub displayed a thick blanket of snow and the white stuff was still falling. It fell all morning, finally stopping shortly after noon. The tree branches are still dressed in that thick jacket of snow. As I drove to the nearest Walmart, I noticed that the snow had fallen so gently that the tall weeds stood erect with their massive caps of snow.
This morning, the clouds are breaking away to reveal a deceitfully warm sun in a calming blue sky, for the layer of white on the ground tells the truth: it's cold outside.
