The snow is much too high for me and I wait, feeling frosted and chilled like a glass dipped in sugar and placed in the freezer.  I wait for my son to please, please get up out of bed and shovel the steps and the sidewalk.
My car is buried, and I couldn't reach the roof if I tried.  My lousy knee no longer bends, and going up and down the steps is no longer easy.
I am absolutely terrified that I will fall.  How did that happen?  What happened to the excitement and thrill of a snowstorm?  Where are all the kids calling to go sleigh riding?  We would bundle up like a bunch of fat fruit of the loom advertisements, and off we would go, up the alley, over to Mumley's and the rail and participate in turning the little hill into a sheet of ice so we could slide to our heart's content.  The ice slide was right next to the rail, so we could grab on if we felt we would fall.  Mumley hardly ever came out and chased us away, yet, that was his garage, his little hill that the trucks had to come out of, and we turned it into solid ice.  Sometimes we would go up by St Stephen's with our sleds and ride down the alley, never fearing anything.  It was a winter wonderland, the snow sparkling and shining like so many diamonds.  Why did that glittery picture change in my mind?  It changed into a frightening scene now, terror of having to drive or walk in it.  Hating the cold now, I shiver and go curl up under my sweatshirt and two blankets on the couch, and I still can't get over how cold I am. Maybe that's why so many retirees move to Florida.