|A memory of last winter.|
I'm talking about snow season, which apparently doesn't need to wait for winter. For those of us who live near Philadelphia, our first flakes arrived on Thanksgiving morning.
I was out in the yard with our dog when I heard the slight hiss and crackle of frozen rain. I saw a dot of snow in mid-air, but thought, no, that can't be. It's too soon.
I was wrong there. The view from our kitchen window not long after confirmed it: 'Twas snowing -- and hard. As my husband and I looked out into the snow globe, the phone rang. It was my mom, calling from the other side of town, making sure I didn't miss it. (Thanks, Mom.)
We sat at the table and watched the flutters and swirls. My husband especially liked the big, fat flakes, which he said looked like feathers. (I have to give him credit for good imagery.)
Perhaps it's genetic, but I felt compelled to make sure both of our own kids didn't miss it. In 21st century style, I texted them, and, like good college students everywhere, they were both still asleep. Hey, I tried.
I still remember listening for the school closings on the radio. Years ago they used to read all the names on KYW, though at some point they switched to the number system. (Come on 301, come on 301!)
My mom once put a note on the bathroom door that read something like: Snow day: Go back to bed, you lucky ducks.
Maybe that's why the sight of snow still fills me with happiness. It reminds me of childhood: sledding, making snow angels, climbing mountains left by the plows in the park around the corner, skating on the frozen creek -- and sleeping in on those unexpected days off from school.
Snow can also be a pain: seemingly endless shoveling and scraping; dicey driving; cold, wet mittens and boots; almost frost-bitten fingers.
I don't think about those things when I see those first flakes. I see only pure, clear beauty, and marvel at the wonder of the world.
'Tis the season.