Gypped!

I always look forward to the first frost of the year. I find it utterly beautiful. It is also the day in which I traditionally silence the cold-blooded wimp that lives within me and follow my unbidden impulse to walk barefoot in the grass.

I've never figured out why I have the barefoot urge on the day of the first frost--but I do. And it's an urge I unfailingly give in to. Only, "walking" barefoot might be a small exaggeration. The effect is more like leaping barefoot upon the corner of the grass, then making a mad dash back to the warmth of the house as fast as my toes can carry me.

We had our first frost this last week. I was up about four a.m. that morning to take Dad to the airport. The world, presumably in all of it's white laced glory, was shrouded in darkness and I just about froze my fingers off scraping the ice off of my car windows. Meanwhile, the much anticipated "first frost" of 2007 lost every last ounce of its proper glory in my sentimental eyes.

Is this part of growing up?