This Christmas could hardly described as a white one, but neither was it completely brown. I do believe the best adjective would be “whitish.” The landscape was covered with a dusting of snow just thick enough to cover its modesty but not so thick that, had it been human and out in public, it wouldn’t have gotten arrested. (A previously substantial snowfall had been virtually obliterated by a distinctly unseasonal rainstorm.)
The disappointing lack of snow cover didn’t prevent the Amish neighbors from going skating on Christmas morning, though. I could see them from the top of the hill overlooking the pond, tiny black figures flitting around while slightly less tiny horse figures looked on.
I figured they were far enough away that I wouldn’t violate any religious taboos taking a picture from the hilltop. (In fact, you have to look hard at the picture to even see the skaters at all; they’re in the center left of the shot, framed between some decidedly unromantic power poles.) Even so, I hastily stowed my phone when a buggy broke off and began climbing the hill toward where I stood.
The dogs and I turned towards home, and my heart was filled with peace. As crazily as the world is spinning out of control–the unseasonable weather being a case in point–and as much as modern “reality” seems confined to screens, there are still skaters out there, firmly in three dimensions, gliding happily, unfazed by the chaos around them.
Would that this world had more skaters like them.