Yes, I realize that technically speaking winter doesn't descend upon us until December 22nd. But I've never been one to pin this season to a certain date. In Minnesota, winter plays by its own set of rules and is controlled only by its own whims, not an orderly old calendar. In essence, winter comes when winter wants to come, and you can usually bet that pre-dates the end of December.
Whether you're 5 or 35, there's a certain magic that floats down with the first snowfall. As a child, the very first sign of a snowflake's flutter had us all running to unearth hats, mittens and snowpants that had been stored away sometime in March. Or April, during particularly infuriating Minnesota winters. I would imagine my mother heaved a heavy sigh of "Here we go again" pondering the wet floors and soppy mittens that would soon be a constant in her entryway. But even she anticipated the clean, white snow that would soon cover the ground in a crystalline blanket of lovely winter splendor.
All those years ago, we scooped together bits of that first snowfall and packed snowballs to hurl at one another, happy that a new season had commenced. It heralded the return of sledding and snow forts. It ushered in the months of hot chocolate and the smell of my mother's seasonal baking. It announced Christmas was nigh (even if those first flakes fell in October).
We received nearly two inches of pristine, white snow on Saturday. I dug out mittens and hats, boots and scarves. My kids bundled up and played outside until their cheeks were rosy and their eyelashes were wet and their socks were in need of a warm radiator. "Mommy!" announced my daughter stomping off her snow-covered boots in the entryway. "Winter is HERE!"
Sliding two snowmen mugs onto the table, each filled with hot chocolate and topped with extra marshmallows, I looked at her and winked, remembering my own youthful exuberance over the first snowfall. "You're exactly right, my dear. Winter starts today."
Whether you're 5 or 35, there's a certain magic that floats down with the first snowfall. As a child, the very first sign of a snowflake's flutter had us all running to unearth hats, mittens and snowpants that had been stored away sometime in March. Or April, during particularly infuriating Minnesota winters. I would imagine my mother heaved a heavy sigh of "Here we go again" pondering the wet floors and soppy mittens that would soon be a constant in her entryway. But even she anticipated the clean, white snow that would soon cover the ground in a crystalline blanket of lovely winter splendor.
All those years ago, we scooped together bits of that first snowfall and packed snowballs to hurl at one another, happy that a new season had commenced. It heralded the return of sledding and snow forts. It ushered in the months of hot chocolate and the smell of my mother's seasonal baking. It announced Christmas was nigh (even if those first flakes fell in October).
We received nearly two inches of pristine, white snow on Saturday. I dug out mittens and hats, boots and scarves. My kids bundled up and played outside until their cheeks were rosy and their eyelashes were wet and their socks were in need of a warm radiator. "Mommy!" announced my daughter stomping off her snow-covered boots in the entryway. "Winter is HERE!"
Sliding two snowmen mugs onto the table, each filled with hot chocolate and topped with extra marshmallows, I looked at her and winked, remembering my own youthful exuberance over the first snowfall. "You're exactly right, my dear. Winter starts today."
