No question about it. Winter has arrived. Today is the coldest day so far at 30°, and we have snow. When I woke up, only the deck had a dusting, but since then, the snow has started falling more heavily and can no longer be described as flurries. The ground is getting a light covering. The sky is white-gray, and the day has a dismal look about it, but we’re warm and cozy, and that’s all that counts. My tree is lit and looks beautiful shining through the darkness of the day.
If I were a kid, I wouldn’t get my hopes up for a free day tomorrow. The snow won’t accumulate as the size of the flakes is a giveaway to the impermanence of the storm. When you’re a kid, a snowstorm is a good one only when there is enough for snowmen, sledding, snowball fights and a day off from school.
I always wanted a white Christmas. It seemed to me that Santa’s sleigh would do its best work on snow-covered roofs, and Santa did, after all, live at the North Pole where it was snowy all year-long. It felt wrong to see grass and streets on Christmas Eve.
When I lived in Ghana, there was never hope of snow. The only time it felt chilly was during the harmattan around this time of year. Nights dropped to the 70’s, and the mornings were cold. Sometimes I swear there was even a crispness to the air. My students hated the harmattan. They had to layer to face the cold mornings to finish their chores. Some wore as many as three sweaters. I loved that sensation of feeling cold and at night I’d snuggle under my wool blanket. In the mornings, I’d sometimes wear a sweatshirt until the sun rose a bit more in the sky. I’d sit on my porch with my giant mug of coffee and watch the small children cut across the school compound to their primary school just outside the front gate. We always said good morning to each other. It was a daily ritual I loved.
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