I know it's not snowing here, nor is it likely to, but every year around December I secretly wish it would. (Please don't tell!) I suppose it's nostalgia for a childhood spent in Utah, where we trick-or-treated most Octobers with our costumes on under a ski parka - and sometimes were still able to have snowball fights in April!
We went sledding, built snow forts, made snow ice cream, ice skated on the pond behind the school, built igloos, made snow angels and caught snowflakes on the tip of our tongue.
I still remember the smell of wet wool mittens drying on the heating vent, the taste of cocoa [over-loaded with chocolate and marshmellows] and the clammy feel of wet corduroy pants that had soaked up melting snow from our boots like a candle wick.
I remember later the fast, scary rides on the snowmobile behind my Daddy. What a dare-devil!
When I first heard the poem Stopping By Woods on Snowy Evening by Robert Frost I could picture it perfectly. In my mind's eye, I was at the top of Dilworth's Hill and the trees around me were bowed down with the weight of the snow on their branches. Snow was falling and everything was white and clean. It was quiet. It was peaceful.
We used to put our faces up to the windows and breath hot air out so that we could write our name on the glass with our finger. If you stood still long enough to watch, it would then slowly disappear. Magic!
And, if we can't have real snowflakes, we can make our own.