A Letter to Snow

Dear Snow,

First of all, thank you for showing up this year. We were all beginning to wonder if you had forgotten about us. I know you have so many places to be in this world, some even more illustrious than our humble hillsides of West Virginia.

You should know that we usually anticipate your arrival a month or two before we can reasonably expect you. The rusty beech leaves still cling to their branches, stubbornly fluttering in the wind, while we tune in to the various prognosticators and pick sides based on our preferences.

I recognize not everyone looks forward to your presence as much as I do, and I must admit that others look forward to seeing you even more. Shocked? I'm sorry. For some, summer is just a long hiatus between rocketing down the slopes or swishing through the woods on your generous deposits.

For others, such as myself, you become a beautiful diversion between seasons of dry, dusty dirt and slippery mud. Somehow, your ephemeral nature morphs into a respectable structure if it's cold enough to keep you around. When that happens, I get to do my absolute favorite thing in the world with you: ride my bike.

And it's incredible. I feel like a kid again with day after day off school, sledding down the same track on the hill with my friends to make it faster and faster. If the temperature is just right, somewhere well below freezing, we can count on you for traction and compaction, human grooming you into the perfect snow flow. Sometimes, if you come on a little too strong, we need to drive some heavy machines over you to put you in your place. And yet, you must forgive us because you keep coming back.

You have been generous with your time this year. You stuck around long enough to become a habit. We got out and rode our bikes every day, and others skied. Some did both! Old Man Winter enacted his toll, dropping temperatures well below freezing. We were out there with you when it was negative one-degree Fahrenheit, and we still found a way to sweat.

Now, lest you get too big for your britches, I feel the need to share a few beefs with you. You have a way of piling up so that my driveway becomes impassable. And so do roads and highways, for that matter. That's when the big trucks come out and, though well-intentioned, make a mess of things. They push and plow you into mountains of inconvenience that morph into peaks of ice. In doing so, they tear up the soft ground beneath, for since you insulate it so well, it has yet to freeze itself a shield.

And then there's your buddy, Wind. I don't know why you bring him around so much. He is obnoxiously loud, scares the dogs, and makes it damn near impossible to see while driving. You bring so much grace and peace when you're on your own. Those are my favorite times—just the two of us.

But here's what drives me most crazy about you, and not the good kind of crazy. You leave. And you can be pretty ruthless about it. Here, one day, gone the next. You take all your beauty and wonder and fun and go home. In your wake, you leave a soggy, sloppy shadow of yourself behind. You look dirty and haggard. Then you freeze again and become downright treacherous.

But, like any true friend, you always call again. One night, when the temperature is just right, you tell the rain where to go and slide in, all bright and pretty. Soon, you've transformed the landscape with even the slightest touch, a sparkling white blanket that instantly covers a multitude of sins.

If you choose to visit soon and stay for a while, know that I'm happier for it. I'm always enchanted by you, even as I shovel you off my roof. You make the world a better place, not only to look at but to listen to, play in, and live in. You are transformative. You are love. Please, don't forget about us.

Your faithful friend,

Vicky

P.S. If you want to see some one-of-a-kind pictures of yourself, check out the Snow Gallery.