Every time it snows this winter, which has been a bit too rarely, if you ask us, Elliott asks me if it is snowball snow. And then without waiting for an answer he throws on his boots and heads out to give it a try. Typically, a disappointed pajamaed boy returns to the kitchen with a frown and a report that the snow is not sticky enough to work into a ball. Or a snow person.
When skiing this past weekend, the few inches of fresh snow had fallen in the mountains the night before we got there. The skate skiers amongst us were disappointed, as these inches had covered the coveted corduroy of a freshly groomed trail. But Elliott, throwing himself into the snow in the parking lot as soon as the minivan doors slid open grinned and reported, with a fluffy ball to my car window, that this was good snowball snow.
And therefore, Elliot wass accompanied by a cast of snowballs for the entire ski that day.
It seemed he was most inspired to collect a new passenger whenever the trail began to head uphill. And he would stop, flop, and throw himself into the fluff beside the trail and begin packing.
Rest taken, rather, snowball made, and he was off again.
Sometimes your snowball needs a little song.
Or a friendly lick. Which is totally okay when snowball comes from the freshly fallen snow in the White Mountain National Forest, right?
And sometimes, when the trail starts to ascend upwards, and really two poles are necessary to get up that hill...
...snowball gets a little toss into the woods.
It's okay. You will make another one. Right after this snack. And that hill.