(My yard this morning...nothing but leaves.)
Now, I follow enough people on Twitter to know that most of the general population would think I'm crazy for making a statement like that. Millions of people just got all the snow they could want for an entire winter...and winter hasn't even officially started. But bare with me and I'll explain my temporary departure from sanity.
I grew up in Kansas. I remember my childhood winters in the '70s, when schools would close for days and the snow would go up to your chest if you were crazy enough to go out in it. I remember long, housebound days of drinking hot chocolate, eating warm donuts my mother made from scratch and the hours spent playing Tanks on our Atari 2600 with my brother or The Game of Life with my sister. (Does anyone else remember that game the way I do? Back then, it was a good thing to have lots of kids, and my sister made up a rule that would give us each nearly twenty. The last version I bought, intending to relive my childhood fun with my own daughter, was more concerned with saving the whales and actually penalized you for having too many kids. I threw it in the trash and have never played it since.)
I remember my teenage winters in the '80s, and getting stuck in Knob Noster, Missouri on our way home from Florida because I-70 was shut down. When we finally, wearily, made it home, the drifts from the snowplows had blocked our driveway. We had to scale a small white mountain to get onto the yard and giant-step our way to the front door.
I remember my 20-something winters in the '90s, when I kept the faucets running all night to prevent the pipes from freezing when it was -18 degrees. Snowstorms that knocked the power out started as early as mid-October and would keep coming as late as March, with an occasional ice storm in January, just to keep things interesting. I remember taking over forty-five minutes to get home from a job that was only fifteen minutes away.
And I remember my last winter in Kansas, ten years ago, when I only had three children and none of them were teenagers yet. I remember the perfect snow falling fat, fluffy and all day long on the perfect Christmas. And those three precious, perfect little girls dancing and playing and laughing in their last Christmas snow. Even now, my heart aches anew at the beauty of their joy that day.
We have had snow since we moved to South Carolina, sometimes as much as twice in one season. Rarely does it last long enough to go out and play in, and never does it accumulate so much that you could really complain about it. Last year, Christmas Day was a down-pouring flood of rain. Not a flake of snow to be found.
Yes, I wish it would snow. I wish I could wake up to a magical wonderland outside my front door. I would bundle up my children and lead them out to explore the cold, white world. And when the last angel was made, the last snowball thrown, and the scarf tied securely around the snowman's neck, I'd lead my red-nosed children inside for hot chocolate and warm, homemade donuts. We'd snuggle together under blankets on the couch, shivering and giggling, watching the snow falling down like tiny frozen stars from the sky.
There's an old saying that goes, "Be careful what you wish for. You might just get it."
Maybe I am crazy.
Because I still wish it would snow.