White Christmas

We've been blessed with nine or so inches of the fluffy white stuff. I am, of course, overjoyed. It did make the trip last night from Indianapolis to Muncie a little treacherous (note: just because you cannot see the lines doesn't mean you should drive down the middle of a two-lane interstate).

(I will not allow myself to become grumpy this Christmas)

It continued snowing into the early morning. When we all finally get up my dad, my brother and I trudge outside to dig out.

"Throw your back into it, boys!"

My brother has a penchant for pushing the edges. This is how he puts cars in ditches, enlists in the Navy without telling anyone first, etc.

That's all well and good until he got to shoveling around my car. The plan was to dig out the curb, move Scott's truck into the street, then clear the spot where he was previously parked. Then we'd continue moving cars into the cleared spots to shovel the other parts of the driveway. Whew. You'd think it was rocket science.

But Scott was shoveling right up against and underneath my car.

"Scott, back off. You don't have to get that close to my car. We'll get that stuff next after we move it..."

No more than about three minutes later I hear "clunk."

That would be metal shovel meeting metal car door. Dent. There is a two-inch scratch, through the paint into the metal.

(I will not allow myself to become grumpy this Christmas)

It's just a car.

So I took pictures of our snow covered house, and my brother and dad shoveling.

I have no idea when we've had this much snow before. It's been years, certainly. And I stood in the street watching my family, wondering how goofy my brother and looked twenty years ago trying to perform this same task. Space and time and memory form a funny combination. I stand in those spots and recall the past and it feels as if I'm there. I am there, I suppose, in my mind. I remember the crimson trickle of blood running down my brother's face and dripping into the snow after our neighbor whacked Scott's temple with a shovel (my brother and shovels...sheesh, must be bad karma or something). I remember dad driving around snowpacked streets dragging me on the sled behind his truck. We'd tie a rope to the sled, loop it around the hitch, and hold the other end. Ski goggles were required equipment. Forgotten railroad tie landscaping in neighbors' yards led to bruises and scrapes (especially when zipping around corners). The injuries were to my brother, more often than not. It's those edges, remember?

Ah, I can just about breathe the memories. Scott and I stand in the bedroom that we shared for many years (bunkbeds!) and we look at each other. I have no idea what he's thinking, but I'm wondering if those kids would recognize us now as adults? And I don't know. We're changed so much, and yet there seems to be this essence of individuality. I don't know that I can really see it in myself, but I can see that "essence" of Scott through the years.

The book is back in Ohio, but I'm reminded of the story A River Runs Through It. Norman MacLean writes in this warm tone and thinks back over the history of his brothers and describes them with color and passion that is remarkable. When I allow myself to see it I realize that my family history can take on that same patina. We've had moments of brilliance, of laughter and love, and pain and tears.

So after shoveling we come in and sit around imagining what we'll do if dad wins the $280M Powerball jackpot. If we win I'm predicting right now that my brother wrecks more exotic cars than I'll ever buy in my lifetime. But I will move out of Middletown. That I know.

I believe that this year marks the latest I've gone before truly getting into the Christmas spirit. I didn't really succumb until last Saturday. But now that feeling is back. I love snow, I love Christmas, I love my family (even my #?!@*% clumsy brother...). I especially love three days off of work.

Now, to Grandmother's house we go...