ArcaMax

At about 4:30 in the afternoon, I started to close the first windows. There was finally a chill in the air that hadn't been there all day. I had earlier stripped off my oversized sweater stolen from my husband as I ran in and out to the trash can. It was a beautiful day that turned overcast, with rays of sun piercing the yellowed leaves that still hadn't fallen in the trees around the house. Eleven years ago today, Facebook reminds me: We had snow.

Our family had spent the previous day in the Big City down the street for a paperwork appointment. The kids were off for Thanksgiving break; my husband and I had some flexibility with canceled meetings. We could all go together and ended up at an outdoor shopping plaza. The sun was hidden, but it wasn't cold. My husband and I sauntered, stretching our legs, and our kids joked and skipped ahead of us, as kids do. In November, we sat outside to eat frozen yogurt. We didn't wear jackets.

"Why aren't there more shoppers?" my husband remarked as we headed back to our car. The Lexuses and the BMWs were driving slowly through the facsimile of a walkable space, a promenade whose function as a walking path was stalled by luxurious vehicular cross traffic. Our normal summers leave us fleeing from one air-conditioned store to another. In the pedestrian design, walking outside was still an anomaly. We were an afterthought.

On Facebook again, someone posted joyously about why she had resettled into the desert, about how it was a blessing to have the temperatures so welcoming at this point of the year, and how she had done her time shoveling snow. We were blessed by the weather.

I was younger than my kids when I watched my parents shovel the thick, wet snow we had in Utah. I would be at home, likely because school had been closed, and was allowed to run around the front yard with my dog, pelting him with snowballs as he took mouthfuls of snow before he ran with the unending energy that Labradors seem to pull from hidden fibers of their being. It's an energy that sees replication in a human childhood. We were a perfect match.

For the past few weeks, there's been a hum of things not feeling normal. There should be cooler temperatures. There should be snow. There should be jackets. There should be shoppers.

A day before the trip to the Big City, I had my weekly bike ride. Riding side by side to chat, my friend and I had sporadically told each other that the recreation trail traffic, which causes us to ride single file and interrupt our talks, would ease as the temperature dropped. I anticipated the cold with jeans over my athletic pants and an undershirt, with a shirt and sweater on top. At the end of the ride, I peeled off the sweater in the parking lot full of cars. It was another beautiful day. We hadn't been alone on the trail.

It's part of our nature to choose to live in the present. We can saunter, shop, and play the fiddle. We can close our eyes, soak in the beautiful days, and be grateful. But in the end, we can still know that we are in danger.

Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To find out more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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