After growing up in Michigan and Maryland and then spending three years in Massachusetts finishing my undergrad, I had an intimate knowledge of snow. Winter started sometime in late November and it held us in a strangle hold until early April. I thought I was completely over snow - that I would never want to see it again. It’s cold and wet and nearly impossible to drive in (at least for someone who lacks in driving ability like me) and after several weeks of sitting around the ground, it turns a particularly ugly shade of grey/brown. Then, after the snow comes the mud. When I moved to San Francisco one of the things that appealed to me most was that I wouldn’t have to deal with snow ever again. Unless I chose to drive up to Tahoe. I wouldn’t miss it.

Famous last words. It’s only been five years and I miss it. Shut up, I do. Not that I’m in a rush to move back East, but still. In the hazy golden glow of memory (read - nostalgia), all I remember about snow is the first true snowfall of the year. Not the little dusting that barely covers the grass, but when it blankets the ground and everything is covered. The bare tree branches are gray, outlined in white. No one has walked through the back yard and it is clean, unblemished. Sounds seem muffled and the gray sky holds promise of more snow to come. It’s the perfect day to spend curled up on the couch, under a mound of blankets with a dog at your feet and a book in hand. Hot cocoa close by for sipping.

I always feel magic in the air at the first snowfall. A sense of promise, even in the dark of winter. One of my favorite times at UMass was walking through the campus with Tom late at night, as snow fell. The flakes would be think and fat, and they’d stick in our hair and to our jackets. Yes, we’d be freezing, but it didn’t matter. We wouldn’t have to talk about anything, we’d just walk. Breath ghosting in the air. The night would be perfectly still and calm and the snow would drift across the street in little eddies.

I miss snowball fights with my brother, and building snow forts in the back yard. They were never very good, not the whole igloos that our neighbors could build, but we could pretend. I miss making snow people. (Although I do *not* miss that my dad thought making anatomically correct snowpeople would be a good idea.) I miss the sound that my boots made in the snow when it was really cold. A squeak and a crunch at once. I miss trying to walk on top of the crust of the snow without falling into a drift.

I miss the snow. There’s nothing like it in San Francisco.

Of course, I do not miss the coldness that froze my nostrils, the tips of my fingers and my toes. I do not miss the ice. I do not miss attempting to drive in snow. I love being able to wear Birks all year round. Plus, if Californians had to drive in snow we’d never get anywhere. The reality of snow is not much like the memory. Without the rose colored glasses, winter is just cold.

Posted on November 29th, 2004 by Kat
Filed under: General