by Jim Whitehouse
My 4 grandchildren live in southern Florida.
The first time my oldest, Ruby, visited us in Michigan in the winter, soon after she had learned to talk, she climbed out of the car in the driveway, felt cold air for the first time and said, “IT’S NOT FAIR!”
Three years later, my beloved wife Marsha and I were visiting our son and his family in Florida. It was suggested that we visit the preschool both of our granddaughters were attending because it was a special day.
The special day, it turned out, was a snow day. In Fort Lauderdale. Uh-huh.
First thing in the morning, a truck had appeared in the school playground and a few tons of shaved ice were dumped on the rubberized pavement. Half of it was shoveled and raked into a rectangular shape and piled about 4” deep.
The rest was formed into a long slope with a flat top. Some plastic saucer sleds were provided.
The children, all dressed in coats, mittens and hats ran out of the school and attacked the “snow.”
Icy little snowmen were created. Snowballs flew. Children lined up to sled down the 18” hill. Parents stood watching.
Stylish young mothers were wearing knee high leather boots. Many people were wearing sweaters or jackets to protect them from the breath-sucking cold in the sunshine on the 75° playground where ice melted and formed rivulets of meltwater that flowed under palms and past sunning iguanas into a nearby canal.
Marsha and I, tempered Michiganders, were wearing shorts, sandals and tee shirts, of course.
An hour later, the temperature had climbed well into the 80’s and the now-wet children headed back inside. The iguanas continued to bask. The parents and grandparents shuffled off, many hand-toting scarves, stocking caps, jackets and gloves having decided that it wasn’t quite cool enough to justify the bundling.
All four of our grandchildren just visited us. Ruby, now 12, has decided that colder temperatures are fair. Milly, 10, George, 6, and Alice, 5, all love the snow and particularly love sledding.
We had enough snow on the ground and spent plenty of time at the good sledding hill in the park near our home. As usual, I was the oldest kid on the hill. The only difference between the young children and me was that I didn’t scream all the way down the hill each time. I may have groaned a little as my aging body absorbed the bumps, but no screams did I emit.
If family history is any indicator, each time the two youngest talk to me on the telephone, regardless of what month it may be, the first question they’ll ask will be, “Is there any snow?”
Ruby and Milly are old enough to understand the climatological differences between southern Florida and southern Michigan but the subject of sledding will certainly come up.
As for me, when we have more snow this winter, I’ll strap on my cross-country skis and head out on the trails. I may even tote one of my vintage sleds to the hill and take another ride or two, but it won’t be as much fun when I am listening to someone else’s grandchildren screaming all the way down the hill as it is when my own progeny are doing the yelling.
