Winter, to me, isn’t about all those things you see on TV. Buying gifts for friends and family, hanging decorations and catching snowflakes.
Winter is a change in the world. Reds and golds of autumn turn to the whites and blues of winter.
Ah, l’hiver, but where most people’s fondest memories lie in warm fire pits and glossy tree ornaments, my fondest winter memory is this: Eight p.m., winter night, I’m just about eight or nine years old. My parents are bundling all three of us, my siblings and me, into heavy snow clothes. My jacket is so big and warm, it feels like being hugged all over.
Dad comes up from the basement carrying five sets of snowshoes. Two big, and three smaller pairs in descending size order. We all shuffle out into the porch light, flashlights in hand, and mount our snowshoes.
Winter is a change in the world. Reds and golds of autumn turn to the whites and blues of winter.
Ah, l’hiver, but where most people’s fondest memories lie in warm fire pits and glossy tree ornaments, my fondest winter memory is this: Eight p.m., winter night, I’m just about eight or nine years old. My parents are bundling all three of us, my siblings and me, into heavy snow clothes. My jacket is so big and warm, it feels like being hugged all over.
Dad comes up from the basement carrying five sets of snowshoes. Two big, and three smaller pairs in descending size order. We all shuffle out into the porch light, flashlights in hand, and mount our snowshoes.
