ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Thursday, January 11, 1996 TAG: 9601110066
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
COLUMN: Beth Macy
SOURCE: BETH MACY
The way you have to shovel six inches at a time, layer by layer, the snow dancing on your eyeglasses and your gloved hands beginning to itch.
The way you remember the Botetourt woman who died three years ago, her feet still in a snowdrift, the tin of bird seed knocked from her hand.
The way it sounds in the snow - eerily quiet except for the birds flitting and sing-songing, frantically searching for the nearest feeder.
The way Mrs. Clean, your obsessive 82-year-old neighbor, interrupts the silence with her leaf-blower, gusting a thin film of snow off her shiny front porch.
The way the automobile is rendered useless and how wonderful that is.
The way cars look like sci-fi transporters with their tall white roofs - except for the one down the street, wind-sculpted into a perfect stegosaurus.
The way Clement Moore's line rings even truer two weeks after the night before Christmas:
The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a luster of mid-day to objects below.
The way the left side of your back hurts after shoveling.
The way your neighbor Nancy's lasagna disappears within the hour; the way your son goes ``Ooohhh!'' when Kim sends over a pot of his favorite soup.
The way stir-crazy looks: a house full of boys on the front lawn down the street, crawling into igloos and screaming wildly. At 11 p.m.
The way your uncle does his cowboy thing - braving snowdrifts in his Jeep to ... go to the movies.
The way some people try to keep pace with the snow, shoveling at two-hour intervals - while others choose to deal with it later, letting it all fall.
The way your buddy Dan waxes philosophical over his 100-year-old Flexible Flyer, then waxes literally, rubbing the runners with the stub of a burned-out candle.
The way Dan takes a running leap onto the Flexible Flyer: down the bank, through the back yard, across the alley, through the neighbor's yard and, finally, across the next street below.
The way the new plastic sled simply doesn't compare.
The way Robin Reed tells people ``not to even play in the snow.''
The way my almost-2-year-old son is offered a bowl of gingerbread inside his chair-and-quilt tent on the living-room floor.
The way he clutches his flashlight and replies gloriously: ``That would be wonderful.''
The way friends you go for weeks without seeing suddenly trudge through knee-deep tire tracks to converge on your kitchen.
The way Laurie Colwin, your favorite food writer, guides you through making bread.
The way your buddies play with the Magnetic Poetry kit, coming up with such gems as ``I love sweet peach lather smeared on a woman's feet'' and ``most who whisper produce a delicate symphony.''
The way the quiet avalanche of snow can elevate an ordinary Sunday to one magical 24 hours.
LENGTH: Medium: 61 lines ILLUSTRATION: GRAPHIC: Robert Lunsford. color.by CNB