Perhaps Mother Earth is in menopause.

That may explain the odd temperature fluctuations we’ve been living with, especially last week.

Those seven days served up sheets of ice and single-digit temperatures, ending with a 60-degree Saturday that lured a flock of robins to our back yard.

Feels like climatic whiplash.

While I’m not a huge fan of frigid days, they did inspire a few moments of pure joy that could not have happened without their help.

On that iciest of Sunday mornings, I took our dog Louie out for nature’s call. As he tromped down our front steps, his front paws winged out beneath him, giving me a clue just how treacherous the path would be.

Clear ice coated every inch of sidewalk.

We managed our way up to the corner, then turned back, heading down the slight incline toward home.

 Since each step I took proved slippery, I tried a different approach. As Louie led the way, I angled my feet and let him pull me down the walk, a one-dog Iditarod, minus the sled.

It took me back to my childhood, and skateboarding down the Stanley Avenue hill  — in the days when skateboards were just that: a narrow board with a bisected roller-skate screwed underneath front and back. 

My icy ride was much slower, but still fun. As I described it to a friend I accidentally said “slidewalk,” a better word choice given the conditions.

I tripped on my tongue, but thankfully not on the ice.