JOE'S MITTENS

JOE'S MITTENS

         “Joe, put your mittens on.”

         “Awe, Mom.”

         “Put them on. It’s 20 degrees outside. No use freezing your fingers numb.”

         Joe loved playing in the snow and making snowmen, but he hated wearing mittens. He quietly opened the back door, hoping to escape mittenless, but his mother entered the kitchen before he succeeded.

         “Joseph Andrew Johnson. Put those mittens on right now.”

         “Mom, the right one’s still wet.”

         “Put them on anyway.” Joe stuffed his hands into the mittens.

         Once outside, Joe formed snowballs and stacked them into a fort. The wet stuff molded easily.

         Soon, the fort bored Joe. He grabbed a snowball from the fort and planted it on the ground. He pushed it around the backyard until, in his mind, it was just the right size. Then, he rolled it in front of the picture window. He rolled a second and a third, stacking them on each other. Finally, he stepped back and looked at his creation.

         “Gee, you don’t look much like a snowman,” Joe sighed.

         He grabbed Matchlite charcoal eyes and buttons from the garage, broke off a long, icicle nose from the eaves trough, and grabbed two stick arms from the kindling pile.

         “There. That’s better,” he declared. As the cold wind blew, Joe looked at the snowman. “You look very cold, Mr. Snowman.” Joe wrapped his scarf around the snowman’s neck, settled his stocking cap on its head, and placed his mittens on its stick hands. “There! You’ll stay nice and warm now.”

         As Joe entered the kitchen, the smell of cocoa drifted through the door. “Joseph, where are your mittens.”

         “Somebody needed them more than I did.”

         “Who?”

         “Mr. Snowman.”

         Looking at the snowman, Mom smiled. She couldn’t be mad with him; he shared his mittens with “someone” who needed them.