It snowed a few weeks ago, a glittery dusting of white that barely covered the sidewalks and lawns of East Vancouver but shimmered under the street lights giving the urban rainforest a festive wintry feeling.
A few days later, the snow revealed its ugly side transforming into a crispy yet mushy layer of dirt flecked muck, the typical of the fallout of a Vancouver snowfall.
Undaunted, Theo noted that the snow was still there and insisted we go out and “throw it.”
So we ventured out fashioning clumps of snow into leafy, dirt-filled snowballs and threw them against the silver maple tree trunk pausing occasionally to let people walk by without fear of a sloppy snowball to the head.
About half-an-hour into our throw-a-thon, our spry octogenarian neighbour came walking down the sidewalk laden with shopping bags.
As she passed, Theo launched his snowball and totally missed the tree. The lady yelled: “Hey kid with a throw like that, you’re never going to be a pitcher!”
Theo threw another and missed again. The lady kept walking and yelled again: “You can forget about baseball kid!”
She arrived at her house about three doors down, and suddenly turned around and yelled: “Send the boy over!”
Theo scampered over oblivious to her earlier heckling, and she pulled out a large box of Turtles (the gooey chocolate treats not the reptile) and muttered, “You’re never going to make it on the ball diamond but … well … here you go.”
I watched as Theo ran back waving the box in the air. He tore it open, and downed three turtles in rapid succession before I confiscated them, simultaneously laughing and shaking my head.