I live in a small world these days. That is not a complaint, but a statement of fact, because it is a world that I have carefully constructed and, quite frankly, meticulously guard.
It is a world of studying public policy, ferrying children to and fro, grabbing a quick dinner with my husband, and wedging in precious time for sport.
So, when this unseasonably early snow came to Denver, it was, in my mind, an obstacle to get around. Commute times would increase, and running in the stuff, well, is not exactly optimal training.
Then I realized: When did this happen? That my life became so tightly scripted that I couldn’t find the time to get out and enjoy the glory of Mother Nature?
I lived in Florida for a long time, and I would love to go out for a run there when a tropical storm was approaching. It was something about the awesome force of nature, the swish of the wind-blown palms and the boiling gray clouds that I had to get out and feel. In college, I worked in Yellowstone National Park for a summer, sleeping under the stars and drinking from streams.
That’s when I decided to walk. I live in Denver, maybe 2 1/2 miles from my office. So I got my good, waterproof leather boots out of the closet and found my ski jacket. I thought I would walk to and from work in the falling snow and break out of my hermetically sealed existence.
It wasn’t exactly the road less traveled, but it was wonderful. Who knew all these people would be about in the storm, carrying groceries and walking dogs while I would typically be whizzing by in my car?
Walking through Capitol Hill, I saw a dude with an iPod and droopy pants, trudging through the snow, carrying a 12-pack of Stella with bare hands.
In Cheesman Park, there was an impromptu dog party, with literally dozens of happy dogs charging around, burying their noses in snow like they’d never seen it before.
I could see the wind coming a block away. It was blowing the powdery fluff off the trees, one at a time until it reached me. Then, I was enveloped in a blizzard. I turned my back to it for a few seconds, but I wouldn’t close my eyes. It was too magical.
When I got home, it took minimal prodding to get my boys back into their wet jackets and out in the snow again. They are 12 and 15 and at their age, any snowball fight is a good snowball fight.
I played varsity softball as a kid and I do not throw like a girl. I hit my older son in the chest. Score. But he got me in the neck and snow dribbled down inside my shirt. (How did I not notice how big and strong he is getting?)
The dog was out too, madly tearing about, criss-crossing the street with disregard for normal boundaries.
As long as cars are not coming up our street, I don’t care. Dogs should have snow days, too.
After we all went back inside, red-cheeked and breathless, my younger son said, “Isn’t the first snow of the season the greatest?”
A big October snow is indeed glorious for kids, dogs and grown-ups who are willing, for just a day or two, to let their worlds grow beyond their self-imposed margins.
Editorial writer Alicia Caldwell can be reached at acaldwell@denverpost.com or at 303-954-1930.
