Winter has finally arrived in our neck of the woods. It arrived on Christmas Eve, just in time for the traditional White Christmas, with about an inch of pretty white fluff. About seven inches of snow came down just before the New Year. That should be our base for the rest of the winter—unless El Nino magically makes it disappear.
The cold temps and snow are about a month late, so most of us haven’t gotten around to complaining about it yet. Today, there’s a thick hoar frost on everything, making the trees in my yard look like something out of a fairy tale (the Dancing Princesses, maybe?). Recently, I went out at night and I was transported back to my childhood.
My friends and I used to walk to the movie theater, escorted by one or more of our parents, and I recall quite vividly a magical snowy night when we walked home after the feature. The air was completely still. A couple of inches of snow had freshly fallen. Trees and bushes were decoratively draped in it. Our boots crunched and squeaked in the silent air. The temperature must have been near 30 because I don’t remember being cold at all as I breathed in that uniquely fresh air that’s present only after a snowfall. All around us, in the light of the streetlamps, the snow sparkled and twinkled. It looked as though a rainbow had frozen and sprinkled the snow with colorful crystals. I fancied they were jewels, scattered by a giant’s hand for us to enjoy. (I was about eight or nine then and already a great fan of fairy tales.)
When I went out at night recently, snow had freshly fallen and it, too, sparkled with a multitude of colors. The air smelled fresh, uniquely clean. My boots crunched, and I stood for a moment enjoying the fantastical spread of jewels and remembering.