I breathe in the tang of sharp crisp cold of record breaking St Louis snow, and brush the memories that seem like yesterday. How can it be twenty years ago that I stood out on nights like this, looking up into sparkled Alaskan skies searching for the endless swirls of Northern Lights.
I pulled my toddlers behind me everywhere that winter. They bumped along in their little red sled over snow packed roads and sidewalks.
Two blocks behind our house lay a lake of thickly dusted frozen expanse. The dog raced after us that day, in bouncing excitement. His curly black cocker spaniel fur glowed in sharp contrast against the snow as he skittered and slid on the ice. We shuffled out to middle of the lake, tugging, and scrambling, and sliding until I decided to harness his boundless hysterical energy.
I hooked him to the children's sled. They sat stuffed together, in snow suits so thick they could barely bend, flapping their arms in excitement.
He shot off in proud delight when I fastened the final buckle. Their shrieks of delight spurred him on as I chased after the careening carriage on foot. We stumbled together in laughing circles. They begged for more each time he stopped to catch his breath, and with brief stops in between, he was delighted to oblige.
The children tumbled off at last, and lay in exhausted joy on the frozen sheet. I dropped beside them and eyed the helpless fold of plastic. I was determined to try it myself. I wedged my way onto the sled as the dog pranced his eagerness to fly off again.
There we ended though. He turned to look back over his shoulder as I called to him to take off, and considered his unexpected new passenger. He leveled a glance at me that announced as clear as speech, "You've got to be kidding me."
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