“The first fall of snow is not only an event,it is a magical event”
I love snow.
At the first flakes I see falling, I call my Mom and we gleefully look outside, sharing the joy of winter’s gift we’ve waited for all season. I cannot hide my excitement, nor my happiness, when our Spring-like city is covered in white for a while.
I love to walk in the snow. I love the crunchy-squinchy sound it makes under my boots. I didn’t like it when I was a child, it grated like nails on a chalkboard, but I’ve grown to miss it and now glad don my old boots and crunch away while I can.
I love when snow softly falls. I am one of the few adults who still try to catch snowflakes on my tongue. It’s like nature’s game; they dodge left and right or over your head, zooming past, never wanting to die and melt at the touch of your skin or the heat of your mouth.
I love watching my dog spring to life as soon as we enter the snowy world outside. Though she is only two years old and still young, at the slight of snow she strains at the leash and acts like a new pup, rolling and routing her nose in endless snow tunnels beneath the sparkling surface. She leaps through doggy-chest-high snowdrifts and gulps down frosty mouthfuls of the stuff, making for a great cold snack after playing her puppyish winter games.
I love that where I live, snow sometimes means the city shuts down for a day, maybe two. The streets are emptied as not many want to try driving on the slippery and dangerous roads. They see it as an annoyance or a fear whereas I see it as a game, a fun and thrilling sport. Don’t get me wrong, I drive safely, slowly, defensively, as I have learned, but I am not too afraid to venture out if possible. My vehicle becomes my sled and I the musher.
I always pray for a white Christmas, true, a prayer not often answered. The glow of coloured lights reflecting on the white snow, the soft gleam of a white wonderland that sparkled back on an evening walk sends shivers through my heart. I would love a white Christmas every year.
In the snow, I am the child I am allowed to be. When I get the chance, I love to sled, toboggan, ski, slide, crazy-carpet, make snowmen, snow angels, or have a snowball fight. (I draw the line at nasty “face-washes”. Those are what older brothers do to their little sister when they can get away with it.)
I love the tingling feeling when hands are too cold and wet from making snowballs or the feel of a scarf wrapped tight up to my nose because it means we have snow.
I was born on the prairies and remember making snow forts inside drifts several feet high. I love the warmth of mittens with mom-provided heat packs and snow pants, the way they swish-swash.
For many, many reasons more, I love it when it snows. My family knows this, as do my friends, even my co-workers. I cannot keep it inside.