The frosting on the blizzard

Seventy-eight years ago today my Mother was born. Her Mother was thirty-five, her Father seventy-seven. Grandpa wasn't there. He wasn't happy that Grandma had gotten herself pregnant again, so he left.

All Mom wanted for her birthday this year was a blizzard. Not the Dairy Queen one, a real one. She had her hopes high all week as the weatherman choir sang in unison all week. Music to Mom's ears. The good German she is, Mom did as she was told. She waited and watched and voilà, by the time she got out of bed she couldn't see across the street, the scanner was busy with people sliding off the highways and the television was beeping and scrolling. By mid-morning the Interstate had been closed, sporting events were being canceled. Mom was a happy camper at home. One inch of snow mixed with an Arctic front did the trick.

Mom also wants her tenth and eleventh Great-grandchildren to share her birthday. They are taking their sweet time making their Mother miserable, their Grandparents nervous, their Great-grandmother hopeful and their brother antsy. The Interstate has reopened so the coast is clear for Ringdahl's ambulance to come up from 56572. It's only -47° wind chill. We hope their Dad will be there. If not, their Grandpa has promised them warm towels to dry off with.

A blizzard and two Great-grandkids. A short list.

Happy Birthday Mom. It sounds like it was. Great-grandkids would be the frosting on the cake.