Last night we had a major blizzard come through - ten inches of snow and lots of blowing wind. Adam went to check on some cattle and I drove over a 9,000 foot pass to pick up our high schooler from soccer practice. Gentlemen, you may have your palm trees and beaches. I will take our Wyoming palm pilots and sons of beaches on the snow packed mountain highways anytime. Ordinarily I would let the tadpole drive home from school, but he pouted the 36 miles while I dodged pickup trucks jacked up three feet playing bumper cars with my little ol' LeSabre in 40 mph winds with snow so thick I couldn't see my hood ornament and only knew I was out of my lane when the cars coming toward me went off in the ditch to keep from hitting me. My middle child sensibly refuses to leave a ten foot semicircle around the downstairs fireplace on days like this. My oldest, when he is home, and his father, snowmobile vertically and ski only if there is at least 6 feet of air between them and the snow. My youngest does the same on a snowboard and prefers to do it upside down. I do not watch - I prefer to go to bed about the end of September and arise, refreshed and thin, sometime around about May 1 with a craving for berries and nuts. Will someone tell me what the hell I was doing on a Rocky Mountain pass above 9,000 feet with a teenager who was not speaking to me in a raging snowstorm after 9 pm on a school night at my age? I will say this: when I got home, I made a pot of tea; Adam got home; we curled up on the sofa to watch the tivo'd "chopping block" and the soccer brat, freshly showered and pajama'd, crawled under the quilt with us and it was a nice picture of domestic bliss - until Adam farted. I went to bed.
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