Death of a Snowman


When I was home last weekend to go wedding dress shopping, I discovered a strange figure in my parents' yard.

It was a snowman. 

In Texas.

Apparently, last week North Texas was hit with a blizzard. I think it really was just a dusting, but people in Texas are weird about snow. Everyone freaked out, and people were going crazy. 

His girlfriend went sledding.  Isn't she cute? 

Again, just to be clear, this was in Texas. She probably looks so scared because she's not used to snow. She's wondering how to stop sliding. She's wishing she had warmer boots. That's just a guess, of course. I can't read minds.

My brother made a snowman. 

So this past weekend I pulled into the driveway and saw a peculiar sight. It was sad. So, so very, very sad.

Austin's snowman was dying. (Think: melting Frosty from that awesome Christmas movie.)

I mean really. Isn't this just the saddest thing ever? He's clinging to life with a droopy hat and ragged scarf. Although, to be honest, I was shocked he'd held on for so long. He's a fighter, that snowman.

As the weekend wore on, I continued to document Texas Frosty's slow, albeit not surprising, death. When his hat fell off, my sister was sad. (It's hard to see, but she's giving a thumbs down.)

Then the scarf started to cover his body as his head melted. It's like a creepy, old Texas Frosty, wearing a death shroud.

And then the body slowly morphed into a stump. When I left, this is what I saw:

Today, my dad e-mailed me a photo of Grandpa Texas Frosty. Now he is no more than a small lump, almost fully covered by the rainbow scarf.

I feel like I should say something significant here. Something deep and powerful. 

But I can't think of anything both appropriately humorous and poignant enough for a snowman's funeral.