Snow Plops Keep Falling on My Head

You know how sometimes you get a wondrous idea, only to find it doesn’t quite work like you figured?

This morning was like that. Last night’s snowfall left everything white and pristine…white ground, white sky, white trees. The trees looked like they were dressed for a wedding, arching over the street in graceful patterns of lace.

I grabbed my camera, drawn to the idea of standing right under one of these beauties to look up through the branches. I choose a tree with red berries still clinging to the branches and positioned myself underneath. Thick snow traced the dark wet lines of the branches. The solemn berries brought the only note of color. I inhaled the silence, the peacefulness of it all.

Plop! A big dollop of wet snow landed on my forehead. Plop! Another one smooshed into my hair. Plop! Plop! The snow was already falling off the trees and into me.

It reminded me of other things that are supposed to be romantic or inspiring, but somehow don’t live as well as they sound. I used to read in descriptions of people on dating sites, “I love walking in the rain.” Hah! I’d think. Then you’ve probably never tried it.

In my 20s, I once dragged a date out for a walk in the rain. I persuaded him that carrying umbrellas would have lost the intimacy. And it’s ridiculous for two people to walk very far under one umbrella. So we went without – for the effect, you know. The rain gently pelted us. My wet hair matted to my head, and my Aqua Net hairspray, of which I had used a liberal amount, now glopped into my eyes and stung them a vivid scarlet. I don’t remember the date’s name, probably because I never saw him again.

Oh, yes, these days I walk in the rain on hikes in England. But I’m wearing a Gore-Tex jacket with a hood latched around my face. It’s utilitarian, not romantic. And sometimes that’s just enough.

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