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Terri Oberg — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 13:36:40 -0400

When I was younger, still living at home with my sister and folks, I hated winter. I hated getting up early in the morning to go out into the wet, cold world to shovel snow. On those mornings when I was expected to rouse myself out of my nice warm bed to help the rest of the family, I would dawdle just long enough to be putting on my gloves and hat just as everyone else was finishing up. I had it down to perfect timing. My mom tried to guilt me into being more helpful by relating several times how her father had died while shoveling snow. Not that I wanted to see my father grasp at his chest and fall over, but I knew my sister, who seemed to love being out in the cold running the snow blower, would be there to save my father this horrible fate. My folks tease me about it to this day.

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