This weekend was marked by Denver’s first snow of the season, a blast of cold that came almost three weeks before its more traditional appearance on Halloween Eve.  For anyone not familiar with my bad winter attitude, I love the west.  I hate the snow.  Really, I hate the tiny snows, the little flurries that pass through town, freeze my green garden, cause people to drive at a fraction of the speed limit, and make the outdoors a less pleasant place to spend time.  I’d trade a winter’s worth of flurries for two or three days of real, honest blizzard.  You know, the kind of snow that reminds you how small you are, that packs your front door closed and shuts down the city for days at a time.  If Father Winter’s gonna hit you, I kinda feel like the only honorable way to deliver the disrespect is in the form of a knockout punch.

Anything less is a waste of time.

I’m just speculating, but I suspect Zach’s van may have shared my sentiments as it huffed its dying breath.  In its own quiet effort to rage, rage against the dying the of the (summer) light, it lit on fire yesterday.  Unexplained and spontaneous, it went out with a final fiery finger to the cold weather that had settled in on the city.  The fire consumed the front part of the van, the back part of Zach’s fence, and all the crappy snow that surrounded it.  It’s sad to see the old beast go, but good to see it go down swinging.