Snow Day

New Year, New Nose, right? Well mine's new. At least from the inside. The outside remains the same, thank goodness. I've now joined the ranks of KJS and O, and my Uncle P, who sent a kind card in the post yesterday generously giving up the Least Deviated Septum Award in the family to yours truly. In a family of over 100 noses, that's saying something, no?

My stay at home has been a bit longer than anticipated. It's given me the opportunity to get used to waking up in my old room again, even though the walls aren't peppered with pictures and my big white dresser full of sweaters and scarves is over at the Yellow Brick House. I've missed most of the snow, minus trudging through the parking lot to the doctor's office for my post-op appointment yesterday. However, just as I did for so many years, I've woken these past few mornings with a sense for the fresh storm. That fresh snow glow that I remember from my growing up years streams through the roman shades and has been here to greet me as I put my nose to the window.

What is it about snow that brings silence? The blanket that covers all but the sound of flake falling atop fluffy flake, covering the ground in a powder, like sugar across Mom's French toast on a Saturday morning. Then, like poppers at a New Year's party, the silence is broken. The world is alive with whirling motors from snow blowers. Children's voices peak as they ride on saucers down hills between houses. Like the hill between Robinson's and Stevens'; the hill we thought was so big when we were so small, little Joey shouting "wheee!" all the way down. We build men of snow against backdrops of mountains made of snow; snow so fresh it makes us thirsty enough to cup our hands and scoop up mittenfuls at a time, flakes gathering on our lashes as we take a taste.

After a day full of white, after red flags have been hung in elementary school windows and snowballs have been packed by unassuming little boys and thrown at yellow school busses, as if some silent snowflake master of ceremonies is at command, the sun falls behind now-white mountains. We retreat indoors, hanging up hats and unraveling scarves. We put the soup on and listen for the kettle to steam. The crystals continue their flurry down to earth, sparkling a moment in the moonlight. Silence returns and night takes over, until we rise in the morning to a layer of white atop fence posts and windowsils. The whirlwind of another snow day begins, bright white light streaming through the shades. Children leap from their beds to see how much their Winter Wonderland has been added to since their eyes fell shut; since they began to dream of snow. Shades roll up and eyes ooh and awe as mothers and fathers pull damp mittens from radiators and heating vents. Mom starts the oatmeal. The silence is broken as a neighbor starts up the snowblower and we set out among the snowfalkes.