is one who’s passed on and left their spoils to the riff-raff, i.e., the likes of me.
In our constant quest for skiable snow, we headed to the Lake Superior snow belt this past weekend. We found this relic from the days of the copper mining barons who, it seems, couldn’t spend their obscene profits fast enough. We settled our scruffy selves about the 35 room manse with its walls of elephant hide, gilt and hand-painted murals for two decadent days and nights, mulling the irony that such as we would be guests under cover of such overwrought splendor.
And the skiing wasn’t bad, either.
This was the snow of my childhood – mounds and mounds of it – my pre-global warming childhood spent hundreds of miles further south.
How does anyone live without experiencing snow like this? I’m still smiling.