I did not grow up with snow.
Fog wrapped redwoods. The cold and roaring Pacific Ocean. Fast, clear rivers. But no snow. If it snowed even once when I was a child in Eureka, California, I do not remember the event.
Now I live in Fayetteville, Arkansas, in the Ozark Mountains, and we have occasional snow. Usually. This year, we are experiencing atypical weather patterns. At least, I sincerely hope and pray this cold, snowy, icy winter is an anomaly. Because I am not a lover of cold. No. To me, hell is not fiery-hot but bone-cold.
There is a surreal quality to snow. A dream-like sense of whimsy. As though anything might appear out my window as I sit and watch the flakes fall. That heap of white against the fence corner might well hide a troll and there, at the edge of my snow-blurred vision, is that a white witch tucking her dark hair under her ermine-trimmed hood?
Tomorrow it may well ice and the roads be impassable and I will cuss this winter and the inconvenience it pours on our heads. But for now, for just today, I will simply sit and watch the soft white flakes cover every imperfection, blanket the earth, and transform my world into a place of cold beauty.