Winter road trip
Loose Ends
Susan Nienow

Who in her right mind would go north in the winter unless she skied and the destination was a ski resort? Did we forget to check the weather or did Mother Nature sneak a snowstorm past the forecasters?

At the last minute we threw in boots - galoshes really. We have the kind that go over our shoes. Very glamorous. They didn't come in pink so I had to settle for green. We really didn't think we would need them. After all, spring is creeping into Richmond - a few daffodils here and there and the occasional blooming tree. How much different could it be just a few states away?

When we arrived, there were a few flurries - how bad could it be? We went to the grocery store and knew it would be crowded. We thought people around here went nuts when it started to snow, but there wasn't a potato chip in sight and forget the sidewalk salt. I didn't know potato chips were on the essential survival foods list.

On my way back to the car I used my scarf to cover my face and hair from the blowing snow. My other half muttered something about dating a woman who wore a babushka. With temperatures in the teens and the wind chill in the single digits, I didn't bother arguing.

On Saturday afternoon, I got a call from a Chesterfield friend who was standing in an open doorway looking at her daffodils. At the mention of hints of green on her shrubs, I hung up on her.

We spent a lot of time watching it snow. Thank goodness for sports on television. It gave everyone else something to do while I read.

My hometown isn't really downhill ski territory. The hills there are called greens, and the road that goes under the railroad tracks is a subway.

Though we didn't see any kids out playing in the snow, I recall the old snowsuit days when the kids and I got dressed for a romp in the snow. It took at least 30 minutes to get everyone snapped, zipped and tucked in and just 15 minutes before one of them got cold and wanted to go in. So an hour later, after the hot chocolate and cookies, they wanted to do it all over again.

Did I mention we had a 75-pound, long-haired dog who loved to play in the snow for just about 15 minutes, too? She really hated having me brush the ice balls out of her fur.

I remember the smell of the wet wool mittens and the wet dog, the depth of the puddles in the back hall. I can't really call the feeling nostalgic. Do back halls smell like Gortex or Thinsulate today? Probably wet dogs are still wet dogs.

My other half dug out the end of the driveway twice after a helpful snowplow created more work. There's nothing like counting seven tractor-trailers in the ditches on our way out of town to make me count the days until the Easter egg hunt.