They talked about it for days, and I refused to believe it. So many times, especially here in Texas, it’s predicted, but fails to materialize. The weather forecasters get you dreaming of snow angels and snowball fights, but what you get is wet, or just cold. Last Friday, the elements delivered the goods.
I walked outside late Thursday night and felt the flakes fall around me, almost in tears, overwhelmed with of the wonder of it all. We’d warned our kids that moving to Texas meant leaving behind certain things, that snowman-building and sledding would give way to more temperate winters, where we could spend more time outdoors without half-a-dozen layers. How Texas has proved us wrong. It was only an inch or so, but it was genuine snow, good for snow angels, at least.
Despite living more than 10 years in New York City, I never tired of the snow. Sure, I tired of the ice, and the dirty, disgusting slush left behind after a snowfall had come and gone. But the promise of snow, the first few beautiful flakes, and those early morning peeks out the window that revealed a world covered in magical white… that I never tired of. And perhaps because of my childhood in Texas, snow was always novel and magical and tingly, like falling in love.
We got a little taste of that love here last week, complete with a snow day and unexpected family time to wander the wintry white neighborhood together before it all melted away. We even pulled out the sled, to ride that rarest of species, the snowy Texas Hill Country.