Kickass, the doorstop dog, says the keeper remembers when waking to a fresh snowfall was an occasion of excitement and joy. The gently swirling flakes brought a cool freshness to a drab world, along with youthful anticipation of rides on sleds and skies, and snowball fights and snow forts and snow angels. The snows came mysteriously out of the night, like the seasoning of a great power cooking up a delicious day just for the likes of the keeper. The early-in-life timing of those snowfalls made them wonderfully transforming things, embraced with egocentric innocence.
Now? Now the new morning snow comes across to the keeper and his ilk pretty much as a pain in the posterior, or the portending of such pain. There is no “God’s dandruff” poetry in it, nor any eagerness to get out into it for recreational purposes. There is, instead, a gloomy forecast of hidden icy spots and slippery roads and ugly slush and long months of forced isolation in the interests of avoiding a broken hip or a fractured skull.
So the keeper looks out at this morning’s new fallen snow, and while a “Bah Humbug!” response dominates, he remarks to Phyllis, “Isn’t that pretty!”
Phyllis nods and gives him a look.