Such a hullaballoo about such a little snow.

Last week we had a snow day on Friday. There was no way that we would have that happen again. The weatherman said we would have, at least an early dismissal, probably 1 pm on Friday was the forecast. I didn't believe it until I saw the little calf running down the pasture to tell Mr. Horse that the snow was coming. I had to giggle at the speed this round little fellow got to and the horse was not even impressed in the least. I longed to jump out of the car and listen to the little calf's weather report, but there was no time. When we got home, the call came and the children were delightedly coming home earlier than even 1 pm. It was 9am. Sleet was coming down and the ground gets so slippery down here, it really is dangerous. Submission to the precipitation is a distinctly Charlottean concept. When it snows, stay home, play with your children, make hot chocolate and memories.

My baby boy came home on the bus, but the teenagers were stranded, somehow. There was a bus accident on the way to get them. One street in and out and we were sitting there behind a line of cars until we decided to go the other way. I love the combination of farmland and communities that we have access to view between home and the schools. As I bake my biscuits I am remembering my mother-in-law and her words on how to make them. What is "clabba-milk" I asked, ignorantly. Now I know and the smell of the biscuits and hot chocolate remind me that only one of my children met their grandma on their dad's side. I reminisce about her care and love for us and the culture shock that I had in trying to get to know her. My biscuits never are soft enough to plant my fingerprints in, like hers were. No matter how hard I try to imitate her care and carefulness, my children never seem satiated by anything edible. Children are always hungry. She must've prayed that their tummies would be filled, while she was baking them. Who could've known that those days would fly by and that we couldn't remember so clearly all that she said or keep any of the days in our pockets. Who knew that we would be the older people trying to pass on the traditions to the next generation, like fingerprints on the biscuits.

As my dear friends, the sparrows come by to pickup the handful of seeds that I threw to them this morning; I am recalling the massage of the turkey that I was privileged to participate in with Grandma Rosalie. I talk about it to them, but their eyes glaze over that I could have been in awe of a woman who had power in her hands to bless and rear so many strong and powerful people. The look on her face when she enjoyed something was impressive on my minds eye this morning. I tried to help my children imagine the ignorance of their mother, next to this woman who towered above me in knowledge of children and tastebuds. What is a crawfish?, Grandmother. What is a Cric? More questions than I ever asked in my life, were in my mouth with her. I felt so stupid around her. She knew everything that had become important to me.