Dear Elena,
SNOW DAY! And it was a real one, with temperatures that only rose into the mid-30s and snow that’s still on the ground this evening. Okay, so it’s only four inches, but it’s beautiful. You and I were supposed to go to work, Elena, but I didn’t want to chance it with a bus running far off-schedule, and I certainly wasn’t going to drive. So we pulled Sylvan into our snow day, at least for the morning, and went to the park, where the snow was too light and fluffy to sled on; we just sank.
After dropping off Sylvan to play with his friends at school (he was certainly too involved with the touch table to notice his girls had gone), we walked to the bakery and then to the Masonic Cemetery. The high school student behind us at the bakery said to his friend, “Isn’t it neat how when it snows you want to see what every place looks like? I woke up and thought, ‘I wonder what the cemetery will look like in the snow.'” We passed no fewer than three sets of cross-country ski tracks and dozens of folks, ranging in age from one to fifty, sledding (many bodies had iced down some tracks by then), skiing, and walking on our way to the cemetery.
One of my favorite things about Eugene snow days is that nearly everyone takes a snow day.
Today I saw Spencer Butte from my office window; despite its size, smaller than some closets I’ve seen, I dig my office. You were asleep in the bassinet near the woodstove, and I was working on Christmas gifts in my office. And I could see the snowy mountain and some goldfinches in the treetops outside.
You started squealing on Saturday, the day after Daddy brought you to your 4-month appointment and checked “no” on the questionnaire that asked whether you squeal. Each morning, when you wake up, you don’t seem to remember that you can make such high-pitched noises, but, as the day progresses and you find your voice, the squealing begins. Your voice charmed your grandfather yesterday. You were quiet until I showed you the phone, then you just chatted away.
I love you,
Mommy
