Growing up in the 50s and into the early 60s I can remember how, when it snowed, for what seemed like days at a time, my sisters and I would gather at the window sills, in pajamas and just watch with such gleeful fascination.
I can remember how voluminous snow came down in currents that would change direction suddenly, and I would think to myself there’s gong to be a lot, which meant plenty of fun and no school. Some stray flakes would linger and dance about the outside of the windowpane as if cautiously deciding where to alight. Invariably, on that pane there would develop a magnificent ice crystal etching of what remarkably looked like Christmas trees. That was all so long ago and I remember the good feeling of being warm inside and looking forward to going out into the snow.
Now, as an adult, I look out and contemplate the beauty of the snowfall; its freshness, its insistence on silence and its mellowing out of all form and contour to something more natural. I try to resist the edging sense of knowing that I will have to shovel, and deal with getting to work and avoiding slipping and a hundred other chores, concerns, cautions and hardships of winter. But for a little while at least, I can enjoy it.