When Does Snow Stop Being Fun?

Somehow it surprises me every year. Summer days melt away all thought of winter; so much so that when those first flakes appear, it’s like I’m seeing them for the first time. Winter arrived in Western Mass with a modest overnight dusting. Watching the shadows of precipitation flit through the beam of my headlights, I recall having the childish thought that the rain seemed to be falling more sluggishly than usual. Then a gust sent a column of white flecks corkscrewing into my windshield, and in an instant it all came back. It was like unexpectedly hearing the voice of an old friend—shock giving way to a timeworn sense of amity and comfort. I stood for a minute in my driveway watching the snow dance in the halo of my porch light and I thought to myself, “this is a blessing.” When the snow came in earnest the day before Thanksgiving, my shovel was propped expectantly by the door. In the hills, we took the worst of the storm. Fat flakes appeared outside my window at 8 a.m. and did not stop till well after nightfall. Every six inches or so I’d strap on my boots and clear the walk. The fluffy powder seemed to weigh nothing at all and I plowed through my chore smiling, happy to feel the cold air in my lungs and watch the world be recast in white. But even in that moment, I knew it would not last. Every friend, no matter how dear, outstays his welcome at some point. The day will come when the snow is not so fluffy, and I’ll hack feebly at the packed ice with my plastic shovel. I can already see in my minds eye the deep blues and blacks my hip will turn after my annual tumble on an ice patch. And I have no doubt that my car will get stuck in a drift at least once, most likely on a day when it’s so cold outside my nose hairs freeze. I’m not sure exactly when it happens, but at some point winter always loses its luster. “I heard it’s going to snow tomorrow!” will inevitably turn into “I heard it’s going to snow again tomorrow.” I think that day comes at different times for everyone. Some older New Englanders I’ve known have lost their tolerance entirely, cursing the first snow as obscenely as the last. Many others seem to hold out until at least January, almost as though they think there’s no point to snow other than to provide a white Christmas. Even the skiers I know seem less enthusiastic by the end. Ecclesiastes teaches us that to every thing there is a season. We just pray that season doesn’t linger too long into spring. So how about it, readers? When does the snow stop being fun for you? Are you already dreaming of green things or are you one of those hardy few who feel most at home in the winter?

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