I wrote this several years ago, and re-discovered it today. A welcome balm as the heat of summer smothers us, and a wildfire rages in the next valley over.
There are few things as peaceful as watching snow fall in an evergreen forest. Fluffy flakes floating to the white ground, the trees accumulating armloads of meringue, sounds muffled by the layers of white.
I suppose it comes as no surprise that I am fascinated by snow, having grown up in Texas. I remember walking through a Christmas display as a kid and looking at the imitation snow, which consisted of sheets of cotton batting topped by huge, iridescent sparkles. I had seen snow a few times, but never snow with huge sparkles. I thought it looked fake.
Years later, I came out of my little Colorado cabin to see a fresh winter snow topped with giant crystals that glinted in the sunlight, like sprinkles on a magical cupcake. I had no idea until then that the designers of that childhood Christmas display had captured a perfect snow so well.
In my little town, snow changes the mood. People hunker down in their homes, but those who do venture out are cheerier than usual, and more concerned with their fellow townsfolk, because we are part of the Brave Enough to Be Out in This Weather Club: “Here, let me get that door for you, Mrs. Jones.” “Drive safe, Mr. Banks!” “Whew! It’s a cold one out there!”
You can drive slowly across the town—you can even take up more than one lane if you want to, since it’s not really clear which lane is which—and arrive home at twilight, in time to feed the cats and snuggle up with a cup of hot chocolate as you watch the day turn into night and watch the snow falling on cedars.1
And you think to yourself that life could not be more perfect.
- Clearly, this post has nothing to do with the novel of the same name; my apologies if that’s how you got here. Long before I knew the subject of the novel, the title—and the imagery it evoked—appealed.
