The thing is, it just doesn't snow all that often in Oklahoma. If she were a Siouxlander, like her father, she'd be accustomed to it by now because a new powdery bit yesterday only served to swirl in cold, cold wind. Sometime this week, I'm sure there'll be more. But in Oklahoma, her mama's country, snow is no everyday thing.
And she's two now, too, old enough to not only see what's going on, but to take note of it, to stare, even, when what she sees is some blessed new phenom that takes real time to registers. That's why she's sitting there at the window, this otherwise eternally busy little girl; that's why she's so very taken with this strange blanket of what-is-that-again?
It was Mother Teresa--Saint Teresa--who taught me the word bewonderment, one of those strange words you understand instantly even if you've never used it or seen it before. Bewonderment is, methinks, the very beginning of wisdom--the ability to, even the practice of, being awed. This darling little girl, my granddaughter (others' too, but right now I'm taking full credit) is purely and publicly in awe.
And it's beautiful.
But then, I'm her papa, whose evaluations are certainly not to be trusted.
So what I'm seeing right here is a whole gallery of reasons for thanks. For her, now in her second, awe-inspiring year, for the delight of snow in Oklahoma, and for bewonderment itself, for simply seeing it happen in the life of a darling little child who just happens to be my granddaughter.
Okay, twist my arm. Here's one more--this one from the party.
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