November 22, 1999

Yesterday I awoke to the first snow of the year. It was cooler than usual in my bedroom and I thought to myself that it must have cleared over night for the temperature to drop so noticeably. But as I looked in the direction of the window I noted how much brighter the day seemed as it pressed against the back of the curtains. Such brightness meant only one thing - it had snowed. I yawned lazily, as Sunday mornings tend to encourage, and swung my feet out of the downy warmth of my flannel duvet.

My window stretches almost the full length of the bedroom. This broad expanse of pane invites the elements into my room every morning. I've been awakened, in the past, by the insistant drumming of rain against this glass and also by the radiating heat of a summer morning sun. On this morning, with the sky still heavy with snow clouds, the reflection of day on pristine white shot a crystalline spectrum of light into my room. As I drew back the curtains, once again the beauty that is winter reimpressed itself upon me. No matter how many years I succumb to the drabness of the dark months, I am still awed by the first snow of winter.

Huge, sopping flakes of snow drifted earthward, piling up in wet mounds on the grass, on the branches of the front yard maples and on the bales of leaves raked against the bases of the trees. The road beyond the maples was silent so early on a Sunday, but wet and snowless despite the lack of traffic. It was warming quickly.

I watched the snow fall. It didn't waft as it does when the temperatures dip well below freezing, but rather it fell, determined, as with purpose. The gutters were already starting to drip as the coating of white on the roof felt the effects of the approaching day. I knew, instinctively, that this first snow of winter would slip away, as it does each year, very quickly.

It's as if she tests the waters, this winter lady. She sends her scouts down to make sure that there are bare branches to collect on, that the flower beds are dug and covered with mulch, that sleds and toboggans and mittens and scarves and boots and toques are removed from sheds and boxes. She ensures that snow tires are installed, that skis are waxed, that snow blowers and shovels stand ready. She prepares the winter to accept her with her first coming.

She won't stay long, she never does on the first visit. But she has left her calling card. She will return, and with her she will bring her heavy blanket to spread out and lay the chilling months upon.

The first snow is the prettiest, the briefest, the most telling.

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