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Today, I taught my grandchildren how to build a snow wall. Complete with a doorway. It was quite a feat for a chubby 50-something Nana, especially in light of three rather disinterested, somewhat sluggish, grandkids that had been earlier dragged away from their Nintendos, to spend a few hours outside.

We pulled into one of our city parks; it was hosting the annual speed skating festival.

Bright sunshine cast magical rays upon the snow conjuring up a field of flashing diamonds; people of all ages were skating round and round; some folks were hard at work molding snow sculptures; others were boarding the back of a hay wagon pulled by a pair of massive and sweaty Percheron draft horses. A heady feeling of old-fashioned fun permeated the cool wind.

Just near the ice rink, someone had started a ragged little snow wall; it lay spent and deserted like a jawbone with broken teeth. But there were plenty of snow chunks lying around, and the temperature was just high enough so as to make the snow sticky. We had the perfect conditions for building a snow wall. Perfect, except for three lazy grandkids.

"C'mon, you guys," I said. "Let's build a snow fort. Look someone has already started a wall."

"I'm tired," said my 12-year old grandson, from a few feet away. He lay like a snow slug, on the top of the little hill, arms outstretched in feigned death.

"What do you mean you're tired?" I asked. "Get up and come help."

The snow slug groaned. I knew visions of his Nintendo and Mario and Luigi were the only things keeping him alive.

"You know you have to get outside and do physical things. If all you are going to do is play Nintendo, I'm going to take it away. Now get up."

The snow slug rolled slightly and began its slow descent down the hill.

In the meantime, my 10-year old granddaughter, and my 8-year old grandson began scouring the area for sizable snow chunks. If Nana was intent on building a snow wall, they would at least give it a go.

Chunk by chunk, the wall rose. Big chunks, little chunks, ragged chunks - each one went into our little snow wall, which now stood about four feet high by about six feet wide. The warm sun was doing its job, and as we added weight to the wall, the snow compacted and fused. But my labor force was getting a little winded, and the snow slug still hadn't brought us a single piece of snow.

"Get over here and start chinking," I said.

"Chinking? What's that?" asked the snow slug.

"Chinking is filling in

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