An Island Snow Day
We're up at an ungodly hour with dad who likes to watch how bad it's going to get and psyche himself up to go out and plow it, nursing hot coffee and picturing himself out there in the lumber yard like a ball of heat inside all that cold white that blurs the shapes of things and bites his face in the darkness.
It took a little while, but I finally convinced our toddler that it's too early to go out and play in it. We're camping out in the bed with oranges and Peter Pan. This late Janurary snow, our first of the year, is an event. A snow day has been declared by some of the schools. I'm soon going to amass all the snow gear and bring down the sled. I look forward to the sunrise, the gleam of the snow covered trees. The icy air sharp in the lungs as you step out in it, it's bright, immaculate beauty.
There it is. I've opened the curtains. There it is thick and poetic on the woodpile and the overturned red wagon, in the chalky gray as the dark slowly fades. The treetops have already been blown back to their green needles. But their trunks and bare lower branches are etched elegantly in white.
Today, my child and children all over the island will experience a rare delight-- the wonderland that is the norm for the rest of the northeast in wintertime. Today we'll put them in their snowsuits and their hats and mittens and take to the little hills and laugh till our cheeks are rosy and build those Frosty's and fall back in the soft fluff to make angels and laugh again and cry Weeeeee and gather a little clean snow perhaps for a maple snow cone and for a day, for just a day let them live the winter childhood of their dreams.