5 X 7 card with envelope. Blank inside.
Item No. ANT925
Story on the back of the card:
It brings out the joy in people. Everyone, it seems, turns into a kid. No one is glum. We first spot our fellow revelers in the doughnut shop in the town of Sandy, Oregon before we head up. You can tell who’s going there, too, by the clothes of course. Anyone headed into the winter wonderland is dressed for it.
Up to Mount Hood, past the downhill ski areas and small slopes for inner tubing and sledding, my friend and I head to the groomed Nordic track I love. As I move, my poles are marking it. All the conifers of the forest are laden with it. Heavy loads bear down on the branches until a gust sends a shower of flakes into the air—as if teasingly blown by Jack Frost himself—and down over me as I ski by. Anything beyond the edges of the trail is covered in pristine cappuccino froth. The groomed track under my skis is slick, a slight crust of extra glide-able ice that’s nice in four narrow grooves, one on each side of the trail. A chevron pattern of ridges and indentations runs down the middle of the trail, evidence of the skate-skiers who are now approaching, and just as quickly whiz away in a sway of balletic, outwardly turned movements. Another shower of flakes wafts over me, resting on my face and hands and chest.
If there were another word for love, we wouldn't have to use modifiers for that big noun. We could make distinctions, like the ancient Greeks did, with philia, agape, and eros. If there were another word for love, here where all the cold, white gentle jewels sparkle all around me and even on my lashes, it would have to be snow.