It is snowing.
Great big gobs of white stuff is finally falling from the skies. I want it to snow, and snow, and snow so that there is metres of it on the ground and we can’t do anything but make hot chocolate and burrow under blankets watching movies and taped episodes of some kids show my son is nuts about.
Despite the cold, the ice rain that fell earlier, and the sheer inconvenience of the slippery walkway and shovelling that will need to be done, a snowstorm is so comforting this time of year. It verifies our need to hibernate, it gives us the opportunity to wear cozy, warm clothes and seek out guilty pleasures we don’t normally give ourselves permission to have. It lets us reinvigorate our faith in Winter, and the inevitable ritual of the season.
The whiteness is intoxicating if you think about it. The beauty of the falling snow gives us romantic ideas of fires in the fireplace, and a bearskin rug. Even folks who would never normally want a dusty, ratty bearskin rug in their house would gladly park themselves on one in front of a hearth when it is snowing.
Snow helps us conjure up the image of perfectly paired skiers carving down a slope, or an expertly waxed wooden toboggan with six children aboard, careening down a hill. The flash of an ice skate blade, the sound of a snowball hitting someone’s back and disintegrating. The collective steam from everyone’s breath. The promise of fun, and the lure of play.
But the real reason behind my desire for heaps of snow is this:
When it snows, my son looks out the window, and with excitement that cannot be measured, he will turn to us and say,
“Mommy, look! Its a snow day!”