I have a love-hate relationship with snow. The little kid in me wants a couple feet of the beautiful fluffy playground material, but the mature adult side of me says, “Snow stinks!”

Waking up to ten new inches of the crystallized H2O puts one in such a joyful mood. Shoveling used to be an aerobic exercise, and if one was creative enough, initials and secret messages could be carved all over the sidewalk and entire farm. This year, I would first test myself on remembering where the shovel was, and if found, would break the handle off and shrug my shoulders while pointing to the dog.

I stuffed myself into my insulated coveralls, but the dang things wouldn’t zip up again. Last spring I promised myself they would close with room to spare by this snow season; maybe next year.

The house cat did his little Garfield dance, followed by two short meows that meant he wanted outside. I told him the snow was deep and he was a foolish feline to attempt it, but out the door he dashed, totally disappearing under the snow except for his tail. The tail did a huge loop around the front yard, sticking out of the snow, and back through the front door in a matter of seconds. Shame on me, but I had to laugh, and it was a good snow moment.

These leg muscles that we must use to trudge through the fine ice crystals should be warned in advance. By the time I got to the barn to let the horses out, I was walking like Old Saint Nick himself, with no bend-ability left.

After the first heavy snowfall, I’m pretty good to remember to not kick the bottom of the barn door when opening it. Yep, down it came off the roof right on top of my head and onto the back of my neck to make a very bad and foul-languaged snow moment.

Anxious to see the weanling colt’s first snow steps, I found it a fine, fine moment watching him hit the powder and do the hot-potato hop as he was eaten alive by ten inches of white wolf.

Watching the warnings and closings scroll across the bottom of the television screen, I could swear I saw that in between Eagan and Enderlin it scrolled that “Emily” was closed for the day. So be it; as I was stranded in the house, I would get out my long-lost list of “to dos” and accomplish great things.

I will never list patching jeans as number one on my resume. After breaking the third needle and sewing the legs together, it was time for a snack. All I could think of was cherry cheesecake, and according to the date on the Philadelphia package, we wouldn’t be baking a pan of that today. Improvising, I crushed up graham crackers and sprinkled them on top of an open can of cherries.

Settling on the couch with my very own personal cherry-tart concoction, I tuned in to a soap opera I hadn’t seen for a year. Some of the main actors were the same but married to different people. One gal was having a baby—the same lady that, a year ago, had introduced her granddaughter on the show. Bridget was baking cookies while concealing the identity of her child’s father to her cousin’s maid who used to be the main character on a different channel.

Those cookies looked a lot better than my cherry-tart mixture so, during the fifteen-minute commercial, I put the Kitchen-Aid mixer to work on some chocolate-chip delights. Finding no chips in the pantry, I sat down with the mixing bowl and ate most of the dough. “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!”

After a breather, the next item on the list read “clean closet.” Mad at myself for actually buying the containers to organize the closet items a very long time ago, I dug in. After making a big pile of “no fit” clothes, then putting them in a “maybe next year” tote, the next item I pulled out to save or toss was an electric ice cream maker Ed and I had received as a wedding gift. Blowing the dust off, I thought, “What the heck,” and hauled it off to the kitchen.

Some of the directions were missing, but a stubborn, housebound woman wouldn’t let a little thing like that tarnish a good bowl of ice cream!

The Abominable Snowman himself couldn’t have made a bigger mess than that ice cream maker did to my kitchen. Finding out way too late that the missing directions were taped to the lid, I penciled in “wash kitchen ceiling” on the “to do” list after I finished eating what was left in the bottom of the container.

Digging in the cupboard for some rags, I discovered, there, on the very back shelf, an entire box of Little Debbie’s fudge brownies. “Who can eat just one?” I thought as I sat down, immensely enjoying my little snow party moment.

Ed came in that evening and asked what was for supper. Well, dear, we’re out of everything and I couldn’t make it to town for groceries because of the snow; besides that, we should try to cut back…