Winter weaves her crackling ice,
Sending chills through all she touches.
With pelting hail she pummels us,
Pounds the flowers, crumples, crushes
Of all her wicked wintry weapons,
(A freezing rain my window brushes),
Her very worst I now discover
When in my shoes, the freakin' slush is.
Frogma posted yesterday of her midwinter malaise, as she potatoed on the couch, shipping shome Shiraz.
I was warm and cozy, in my Californianess - aloof, and above it all.
Until I saw it. That photo she posted. Oh no!
For thirty years, I'd been in denial. I'd left it behind in New Jersey. I'd put it from my thoughts.
For thirty years, my socks had been dry, my toes toasty. I'd long forgotten what I'd run from all those winters ago. That soggy plague.
But I got chills again, just looking at that photo. It all came slushing back.
Slush is absolutely the worst thing there is about winter. It's inescapable, relentless.
Snow you can walk on, trudge through, and brush off. It'll work with you.
Puddles, the careful and judicious can avoid, they're at least transparent and show themselves.
But slush is sneaky and evil, a witches brew. It takes on all forms, like silly putty. It hides its depth to the unwary. It mounds up, and climbs over the highest shoes.
It knows if you've been naughty or nice, and gets you either way.
Slush is the coldest substance on earth. And once it gets your socks wet, they never dry. Ever.
There are countless romantic references in literature and poetry to snow and rain, the polite precipitations. But have you ever heard a song or poem about slush?
Did Gene Kelly go singing in the slush?
Did Robert Frost stop by the woods of a slushy evening?
Did François Villon haunt us by asking, "Where is the slush of yesteryear?"
Did Grouch Marx wonder...oh heck, you get the idea.
Slush means always having to say you're soggy.