Osler's Razor

This past weekend, the temperature hovered somewhere below ten most of the time. And where were the Minnesotans? Outside, of course. I went skiing yesterday at the little place near my house, and it was jammed with people-- most of them shedding layers as the day went on. On the ice, over the snow, in a fishing shack... people were embracing the winter, and I was, too. This is the kind of winter I suspect that my friend Craig Anderson down in Richmond must miss.

Down in Arden Park, they have set up a hockey rink and opened the warming hut. It's not organized hockey being played down there-- it's people (male and female) with sticks and skates and thick jeans. They play fast and sharp. I love the sound of the blades cutting the ice. As I walked past the rink, I couldn't help but remember the beauty of the game as the players echoed the shapes of a Van Gogh-- those curving whirls, always in motion, always turning, gentle arcs in unison.

My skates are in the basement, my ankle nearly healed. Winter calls.