…the parka fabric turns crinkly. This morning was a cold day.
Along with half of Boston, my car would not start. When my daughter learned that we would have to walk to school instead of take the car, she was irate and tried to blame the failure on me. I testily explained that although I can call the shots on many things, I have no say in the weather. Not my department.
My daughter had dressed for non-dress-code-day at her school and had taken an inordinate amount of time getting into her pretty frock with its cinderella sleeves, white tights, and patent-leather party shoes.
So we went back inside and added layers. Over the white tights went a pair of sweat pants. The party shoes went in her backpack, to be put on when she got to school. For the walk, she wore boots. I added an extra scarf around her neck and one around mine, too.
Now, looking more like egyptian mummies than new englanders, we set out again. Trading on her interest in polar bears and penguins, I encouraged her to develop the ability to walk in the cold in order to someday enjoy arctic exploration. She meditated on this for a while. When we got close to school she said philosophically that she had lost interest in polar bears. I admitted that my interest in polar bears was also at a low point.
Trying to find some exposed skin upon which to lay a kiss, I bade her a quick goodbye. Turning to my bike, I put on my helmet, added a face mask, and set off, looking like a terrorist. Arrived safely with all fingers and toes intact, I sat down at my desk, and took a deep breath.
Once again, the question presented itself: what’s not to like about Arizona? And why am I not living there right now?
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