In the warming room at Boomerang Creek, the smell of a fire in our Buck Stove is comforting. The calming scent of herbs wintering over in a south-facing window fills the room. I’ve just read an AP news article: “Snow, ice disrupt Spanish lives.” Storm Filomena—a 50-year record blizzard—has paralyzed large parts of central Spain. Over 20 inches of snow were dumped on the Spanish capital of Madrid where our son and his family live. Hayden and our granddaughters Inés and Catalina described snow drifts turning to ice as temperatures plummet. Images of Inés ice skating in a blue costume as a teenager surfaced. And from my own past, thoughts of ice suddenly fill my mind.
I don’t remember when I first saw ice. Born in a city named Hot Springs, I lived the first decade of my life in southern regions of Texas and New Mexico, thankful for ceiling fans, Dr. Pepper, and swimming pools. If there was a season called winter, I don’t remember it being much different from every other season of the year.
~ Read the rest in today’s Journal ~