Let it snow, bro!

Look! It's Becky of On top of the world (or at least really far north), guest posting! We've finally worked out the kinks.

Becky is authentic, she has a great sense of humor, and I look forward to her posts every day. As she points out below, she and I have been reading each other's blogs since July. It seems longer to me because she's a blogger I instantly connected with, and haven't missed a post since. Welcome Becky, my Alaskan friend! Visit her site, you won't be disappointed. (No pressure Becky!)

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Wow! This is my first time as a guest blogger. I feel a little nervous. I also feel a little disgruntled that the hair and makeup guys who were present in my guest-blogger daydream (which was oddly similar to “A Makeover Story”) aren’t real. You’d think they’d understand what a big deal this is for me. Sheesh!

I did a little poking around to see when I first started commenting on The Extraordinary Ordinary. It was back in July, on a post about birth order. I also noticed that back then, the number of comments Heather was getting was still in the single digits. So, yeah, I’ve seen her rapid rise to stardom and all that. We’re tight.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot about my little brother lately, so I want to share a little piece I wrote about him. I love you, bro!


I adore snow. I love watching it fall to the earth, I love shoveling it, and I love making it into snowballs. Whenever I hear people whining about it, I have to bite my tongue to keep from making snarky remarks like, “well, what the heck are you doing in Alaska, you freak?” It’s probably a good thing I don’t say everything that pops into my head. But seriously, how could anyone dislike snow?

I suppose one of the reasons I look forward to snow every year is that it always reminds me of my younger brother, Solomon. During the winters when we were kids, Solomon and I would pull each other around on our four-wheeler. One of us would man the machine and the other would ride in a sled that had been tied to the hitch. I would occasionally roll off the sled on purpose and then run like crazy to catch up. Sometimes I would get just within reach of the sled, and Solomon would rev the engine and dart away before I could hop in. And sometimes I was able to grab onto the sled but not quite get in. There’s nothing like being dragged around by a vengeful eight-year-old while the snow makes its way down your pants…

Our home was conveniently located just outside of city limits. I say conveniently because the snow plows only went as far as the canal that ran nearby; they deposited all the snow they had cleared from the roads against the bank. This provided Solomon and I with an ideal snow cave construction site. Every year, we anxiously waited for that first big snowfall. Donning our snow gear and stuffing our pockets with any holiday candy that wasn’t nailed down, we’d set off with our sleds on what was, to us, an epic adventure. The best time to depart was six o’clock in the evening, when it was just starting to get dark. We would trudge through the snow towards the canal, which ran underneath the highway. With every passing car, we would throw ourselves to the ground and cover our heads to avoid detection. Because for us, inside each car was a policeman who would not only haul us off to jail if he caught us, but would also confiscate the goodies we had so stealthily pilfered earlier. If we made it safely to the canal, and we typically did, we’d sled down the bank into the canal and slide around on any ice patches that had resulted from the lingering puddles formed when the canal was drained every fall.

After we tired of that, our mission was to scale the opposite bank and find the perfect mound of snow in which to build a snow cave. More often than not, we would have brought a favorite stuffed animal or two. Since we lacked both the patience and the stamina to actually complete an entire snow cave, the stuffies were perfect for another game we loved. We would throw our animals in a hole and dump snow over them, then shout their names over and over. A frantic excavation would ensue, and when the animals were found, we would clutch them to our bosoms, as though we weren’t the ones who had tried to send them to their icy graves just moments before.

Solomon and I don’t talk much anymore, not because of a tragic rift in our relationship or anything of the sort, but just because we both lead busy lives and lives several states apart. He was one of my best friends growing up, though, and it’s nice to know that any time there’s a snowfall, he’s right there with me.