While snow is certainly not alien to the Greater Kansas City Metro Area, today we’re getting a blizzard of epic proportions, in excess of 15 inches in our little corner, with more on the way. As I slogged through the wall of snow blocking our garage door and surveyed the white-blanketed expanse beyond, it seemed our suburb had been reclaimed by the featureless Kansas prairie of 150 years ago.

I had a vision of Laura Ingalls stumbling through mountainous drifts in search of the family mule, gingham dress caked with slush, woolen muffler obscuring everything but her eyes and braids. Poor kid never did know when to quit. I didn’t have the heart to tell her how lost she was, so I gave her a wave she probably couldn’t see through the driving snowstorm and called out, “Bear a little to the northeast, Half-Pint.” And a few hundred miles. A gust kicked up a cloud of ice crystals, and when my vision cleared, she was gone.

I took a futile stab at clearing a footpath from front door to driveway, then waded out into the street to help dig out a blue sedan that struggled into our neighborhood under tow from a tiny Toyota 4-wheel-drive that wasn’t adequate to the task. Fortunately for my heart and back, the Toyota’s burly American cousin arrived a few minutes later and hauled both vehicles to their destination. I returned to my domestic digging and found the hard-won footpath obliterated.

I know when I’m licked. I retreated to a cozy sofa with a steaming cup of coffee and a warm puppy, where I will spend the rest of the day. The snow will wait for me.

Don’t worry about Laura. She’ll find the mule and her way home, smiling from ear-to-ear with cherry-red cheeks and frosty pigtails. She always does.

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