Who's complaining about the rink that won't hold water, the weather that won't make ice, the futzy faucet, the hose that's a mile long and has to be drained every time it's stored? Not I. Look at the startling blues of winter dusk ... the million shades of white that are blues too. How could a person mind?
Towards dusk I go out and shovel off the partly-formed rink in preparation for the dropping temperatures of night-time. Usually there are children around, romping in the snow, building forts or beds or benches or paths or tunnels. I shovel, I check on the chickens, collect the eggs, ready the hose, shovel the path to the rink and the longer path to the compost bin.
And once the hose is on and I'm waiting for puddles to form and for the development of slush to pack into holes, I can stand still and take in the million bluish shades of white on the trees, the mountains, the ground, in the sky, on the flakes in the air.
Do I mind my rinky frustrations? No, not at all.