"The first fall of snow is not only an event, it is a magical event. You go to bed in one kind of a world and wake up in another quite different, and if this is not enchantment then where is it to be found?"- J.B. Priestley
The North is where I was born and spent my childhood. Returning to visit when snow falls is like handing me a silver foiled wrapped package with a beautiful satin ribbon. It is a gift, a gift of reliving inspired moments of my youth. Most of my fondest memories are generously sprinkled with the peaceful grace of slowly drifting snowflakes. The day after this Thanksgiving the skies turned orange and purple at sunset. You could sense an impending change and chill in the air like an approaching army.
We prepared for our battle with the elements armed with woolen scarves, hats and mittens. Magic.
When I was a child I remember begging my parents to let me play outside in the snow. My siblings and I were allowed an hour or two of play to avert frostbite. If going outside meant stuffing myself into a snowsuit with layers of underclothes and five pairs of socks under heavy boots so be it. There were icicles to lick, snowmen to build and snow angels to create. The yard covered in pristine white was an open invitation for fresh footprints and the blazing of trails for others to follow.
