White Powder

         Howdy, as you should know the name's Winston. I am writing to the window browser to inform you of something I think is ( as Ruth would say it) hopscotch. SNOW. I am gl-A-ad that it only arrives one season of the  year.  The worst season. The season where the girl scouts sell you the SAME cookies with a different holiday name for more money. Vanilla becomes "Winter Wonderland", Thin Mints are "Christmas Trees", Caramel deLites turn into "Christmas Presents", and so on. But also, SNOW. Snow is cold. Snow is boring. Snow is an obstacle. You may wonder, "Winston must have had a tragic history with snow", and to answer that thought I am going to tell you yes.

        Now, before you begin thinking of all the possibilities such as a military incident or meeting Ruth, I must make you aware that when I was trapped in Syria with Myron in the deep, icy war battle called snow, I already hated snow. It began on January 31, 1935. I was eight years old, living in the apple of Midwest. It was a below freezing Thursday, I was minding my own business, watching my father "discipline" Albert, my younger brother, with his leather belt. When my mother, who was getting things tidy, takes off the wooden boards nailed to the window to get some fresh air in, and there it was. The little sniper we call snow, and a whole barrel of  it. "Winny, dear, why don't you go out and play with Harold in the snow?". My mother's ideas, I should have known. However, I had nothing better to do in my chair watching my brother's discipline occur. An hour later, I was with my best albino pal, Harold.

       We were just making snow monsters, when these huge, acne faced, meanies come across our way. Harold let out a disgusted "Good Scott" when he saw them. "Well look righ' here Tom, we have ourselves here some half portions!". Rude. As a matter of fact I was NO half portion, I was known as a straight on Joe when I was in school. I told those scrubs to back off and let us be. My nanna had told me to take the high way but I was no doormat. This resulted in both Harold and I to be robbed of our possessions, stolen from our pride, and buried 4.908 feet in the cold, white powder. It wasn't until later that a couple of young lassies came by in their Peter Pan collar and saved us. One of them noticed my tennis shoe laces sticking out of the snow. Harold thinks of it differently, but I think that she was thinking "Aces! Free shoes!".  For me, my hair has never been the same ever since. Harold earned the worst of it. Today he is still paler than he was before the incident.

    A similar thing happened when I was seventeen. My mother had already set my father's boat on fire for the third time that month. I was walking back to my cave with Robert and Harold, coincidently, telling Robert of the story of the meanies. All of a sudden, an ice ball was thrown at the back of Robert's head. I turned around only to see the same cement mixers from nine years earlier! I was about to make a run for it. I wish I did. In the end, all of us were tied over the freezing creek waiting for our doom. Eventually, Harold's sister helped us down. Did I mention it was snowing that day? Coincidence? I think not. My main wall buster is this, the day I met Ruth, it snowed, I should have known.

             Love and Hate from the West,