The first snow of winter

Every year I waited for it. I listened to AM radio, followed the weather reports, willed it to happen. I fell asleep hoping it would fall, soft and silent in the night, to greet me in the morning.

The first snow of winter. The weathermen talked about it for days. High-country blizzards blessed the mountain ski resorts with fresh powder, but none of the storms moved east of the Rockies.

So I waited. Until one day, maybe while I was sitting in my elementary classroom, the whispered cry went up. "Look outside -- it's snowing!"

The news traveled quickly from desk to desk, until every head was turned and every No. 2 pencil stood idle. When the teacher noticed, it was an instant holiday.

We ran to the windows to watch it fall. Was it a heavy snow? Would it last until recess? Would they cancel school?

It didn't matter if the flakes were huge, pancake-sized crystals or hard drops of white ice, driven by a blustery wind. We wanted to be outside.

If we'd come to school without heavy coats, boots, or mittens, we didn't care. Snow was meant to be thrown in the air and sculpted into forts and castles. Nothing else mattered.

At lunch-time recess, we played until we were drenched. When the bell rang, we came in and lined up our boots up by the radiator. With our wet socks arranged nearby, the teacher opened "Charlotte's Web," or some other read-aloud story, perfect for thawing out frozen-toed students.

It was best when the first snow came on a Friday. Then, when I awakened Saturday morning, I had the whole day to play outside.

Before I went to bed, I'd gaze up into the halo of the yard light to make sure the flakes were still falling. In the morning, I'd slip behind the drapes to make sure the snow was still there.

I watched the cats light-foot it across the yard, raising their paws to keep from sinking too far into the wet stuff. Or if the snow was packed hard, the cats and I could walk right across the barbed wire fence into the pasture, or onto the roofs of the outbuildings.

After a few days of winter sunshine, a hard crust of ice formed over the packed snow. I peeled off pie-sized slabs and traced the icy patterns that criss-crossed them. If I dropped a piece, it broke into a thousand glittering shards, like delicate glass.

Wet snows were perfect for rolling snowmen, or building bricks to pack into forts. Those snows called for a change of clothes at least twice a day, to keep from freezing.

Hot chocolate and cookies, or soup with crackers and cheese, helped to bring back the warmth once I came inside. By bedtime, I couldn't wait to play outside again on Sunday. I still wait for that first snow, just like I did when I was a kid. Friends and family who have to work outside often telephone to give me a bad time when it happens. They blame me for their inconvenience, knowing that I sit at home and will the white stuff to fall from the sky.

I admit, I get to enjoy the perks of a snowstorm -- a good book and a cup of tea by a cozy window -- without paying much of a personal price. I hope that's OK, because I'm not likely to change anytime soon. I still hope for the first snow of winter. And when it comes, it's still an instant holiday.