I live in the southeast corner of Pennsylvania (a little town just north of Philly), a place where you expect Mother Nature to show her capricious side. But this year the good lady is outdoing herself. This winter is like a two-year-old in need of a nap: cranky and intractable - yet so beautiful you can't stop looking at it.
Usually, I love snow. I understand the hardship it imposes on so many and I sympathize with them. I really do. But I can't deny a guilty sense of glee when Mother Nature lets loose and shows who's in charge. When I hear people complain about all that fluffy white stuff, I just smile, keep my mouth shut and think keep it comin'. At least that's how it's been in the past. This year I'm ready to join the legions shaking their snow shovels at the sky and shouting, "Enough!"
It's a classic case of too much of a good thing. And nothing is immune to that. There's nothing so good you can't have too much of it. The book you never want to end - what if the author didn't end it, but kept going on ... and on ... and on ... telling you everything you thought you wanted to know, leaving nothing to the imagination? That decadent dessert you never get enough of - what if you did get enough - and more? How sick would you get? What about ... I could go on ... and on, but there's no need. I'm sure you can think of plenty of examples.
Back to the snow: I've looked out my window at a beautiful snowy landscape long enough. I'm ready for a different kind of white out there. I'm ready for the dogwood blossoms to appear.