Snow Magic

Last night when I went to bed my shoulder ached. I fidgeted for a while, trying to find a comfortable position, and finally took an ibuprofen to help me sleep. By morning I was feeling fine, so I finished off 30 minutes in the gym (aka: basement) and stepped out the back door for my walk-around-the-block cool-down.

Everything was white.

My reaction was instantaneous: I grinned like a six-year-old.

In spite of my bah-humbug attitude toward weather extremes, there's something magical about the first snowfall of the year. It's as if the tired landscape has had a makeover,  the drought-stricken lawn looking less stricken and the leafless trees suddenly less naked and more seasonally appropriate. This morning the final dregs of what the weatherman would call "snow showers" sifted down, sparkling under the streetlight. I circled the block noticing which neighbors left their tree lights on all night, and silently thanking them for adding to the atmosphere. Then I leaned back to catch a couple of flakes on my face, and went back inside, knowing that by noon this fluffy dusting would have blown away.

I won't be so delighted by any other snowfall this winter. I'll remember that snow is cold, wet, and often treacherous, and I'll watch forecasts and hope none of the Boys will be preparing to travel when the snowflake appears on the weather map. I'll sigh at the knowledge that I'm now old enough that my shoulders and knees are more reliable predictors than the TV guys.

But today? Today I was six years old again, and it had snowed.