This Pack Mule Is Ready
Fifty-five years ago, the western most edge of Omaha, Nebraska was the Westgate neighborhood. Now it is a centrally located neighborhood over some rolling hills full of retired people and a spattering of young couples. Ironically, there isn’t a gate surrounding the neighborhood. On any given warm, spring day, it is rare to find more than a handful of people walking the neighborhood, and even much more rare to find someone out for a stroll after a dumping of seven inches of snow the previous night. The most common activity one is apt to see in the neighborhood on such a snowy day is the brief fuss of blowers and shovels displacing snow to make room for vehicles.
Fifteen years ago, a walk consisted of throwing on a pair of shoes, walking out the door, and I was gone. Seven years ago, I would throw on my shoes, check to make sure my wife Nadine was ready to go, and out the door we went. Three years ago, I would throw on my shoes, Nadine the same, and then we would change our daughter’s diaper, put on her jacket, snow pants, hat, scarf, and gloves, start to leave, realize we forgot something, go back and grab it, and then we cautiously began our walk.
In life, time flies by, yet our prep time for any excursion outside the walls of our house has quadrupled. Any trip must be well planned or an extra 15 minutes could easily be added. As of ten months ago, we now multiply that child coefficient by two.
This morning, I opened our front door that had been frosted by the crash of freezing and warm air and stepped outside the house. A contradiction of the senses greeted me. In front of me stood a bright, sunny day, and the chilling backdrop of nine degree weather that freezes your nose hair with every breath. As I sat perched at the top of my steps, staring off down the street, it was the perfect opportunity to undertake a peaceful walk. It was at this moment that Sophie, dressed in oversized black snow pants, a pink puffy jacket, and shin high snow boots, resembling Stay Puft marshmallow man, walked up behind me, smacked me in the derrière, and yelled, “Move over, big butt!”
Time To Get Dressed
There is the new reality to my travels; it’s almost always with my kids. Attached to my back in the same black, travel backpack that we used with a 10-month old Sophie in Argentina for six weeks, is now occupied with a 10-month old Domino cooing to himself. It can be interesting how history repeats itself. Nadine closes the door and we are ready for our own adventure in the snow covered neighborhood.
Our heavy next door neighbor stops me, thanks me for helping him remove the snow off of his driveway earlier this morning and laments the workings of his newly acquired truck from an auction. A neighbor across the street attempts to climb the slippery slope of road covered with several inches of snow, but it just thwarts any success in his red minivan. I recommend a different, less vertically challenging route, and we descend Spring Street.
Similar to the process of readying ourselves for this walk, our progress follows a snail’s pace; slow, methodical, predictable, cold, and yet enjoyable. For every eight feet we walk down the street, it is stopped by Sophie jumping into and walking in the knee high snow of neighborhood lawns, followed by Mom pushing her over, helping her up, pushing her down again, encouraging her to make a snow angel, and everyone analyzing her subsequent piece of powdery art.
“I only have one arm.”
“My head is small like Domino’s.”
“That one is much better.”
“Help! I’m stuck now, I can’t get up.”
Oh, the joys of traveling as a group of four. Or the fleeting joys. Before long, Domino will be the three and half years old, and Sophie will be even older.
The goal of the walk is to observe my surroundings. I breathe in the cold air that is a stark contrast to the mild Texas 50-degree winters I grew up knowing. Two left-hand turns and I am briefly separated from a distracted Sophie and Nadine as they snack on snow off someone’s front lawn. I interject the importance of being a snow connoisseur, “No comamos la nieve amarilla!” Yellow snow is NEVER a good choice.
Then from the top of our neighborhood hill, I peer through the skeleton of skinny trees with their snowy backgrounds. The unperturbed snow reflects the bright light of the sun like a disco ball reflects neon light. The view is peaceful and calm, and times of tranquilness are rarities in life now. I wear a coat that was born before Justin Bieber and looks the part, but keeps me just as warm as any modern North Face coat. My gloves, on the other hand, have ripped, easily exposing every other finger to cold gusts. Snowballs prove to be a tricky endeavor, but one that must be attempted on such a walk even with shoddy gloves. The piles of fresh snow and stillness of the Westgate neighborhood grab my attention, but only briefly. The only elements that continually hold my attention were a rosy-cheeked 34-pound bundle of energy and her just as silly momma who soon throws horribly shaped snowballs in my direction. In a walk to fill my senses of nature, it was the nature of those two goofy girls that constantly infiltrate my senses and leave their imprint.
Tough Making Snow Angels
