Annemarie Eveland

     Winter snow storms came in like a lion. Dumping almost six inches and turning a townscape into a white silent wilderness. Suddenly everything stood still. It transformed everything it touched. The fire hydrants wore thick white stocking caps. Rooftops groaned under the frozen blankets of white. The streets were silent except for the soft whispers of the falling snow flecks that floated gently down from the equally white covered skies. 

   There were no walkers around Green Valley Lake. No autos were moving in that early morning where my out-breath sent clouds of mist into the air. 

   The only sound I heard when I took that morning walk was the occasional thump as a clump of snow fell off the heavily laden tree branches. To be truthful, it was my faithful friend, my doggie, that got me bundled up like a stuffed something to take him out. Dogs are very smart, you know.

   I was glad he did. For the morning had not yet dawned but the street lights shone brightly, revealing scintillating and twinkling tiny silver-white specks falling to the ground. We walked in silence, not wanting to shatter the breathtaking view with any unnecessary sound. I looked down at my black companion now prancing through the drifts and getting spattered quietly with snowflakes. He shook them off from time to time and I noticed his short legs made his belly skim on the snow but they disappeared with each step he made. But neither of us minded. 

  Our feet crunched past the boat dock, now frozen, with one lone boat tied to a post. Launching was impossible for today with snow packed in it and ice forming on the water surfaces. 

  I thought of my scientific-minded friend and that, if he was on our walk, he might be saying something like, “You realize that snow is really little water vapors that freeze into tiny crystals high up in the sky in the cloud cover and then attach to each other, descending and turning into snowflakes. Even though snow and ice are made of the same stuff, snow is composed of crystals with regular shapes and the ice forms as solid chunks or sheets of ice. It’s all about how the water freezes into its form.” And, he would add, that snow isn’t white even though it appears that way to our eyes. It is colorless and appears as white from any and every tiny reflection from the sun.

  Well, that would be enough to zone me out. I like the understanding that came back to me from the little children and their new, fresh, non-analytical way of experiencing snow instead of identifying it. 

  We continued our walk and saw many families beginning to arrive with their kids dragging their new toboggans uphill. Then, taking respectful turns, they slid downhill, giggling and squealing with delight. The onlookers cheered too, as if they were party to the planning of the activity. 

  I paused and looked at a family introducing their toddler son to the magic called snow. In front of our town’s Christmas scene lights, they had helped him erect his very first snowman. Certainly, a moment to remember. With an approving nod from his parents — snap, snap — I took his photo. He laughed. I thought this was a profound moment but he added frivolity. 

  Somehow, this little boy creature stirred memories for me — of snowball fights, bigger snowmen (and women, yes, appropriately proportioned) and nostalgic Christmas carols and bedtime story tales. 

  I’ll admit I had become curious about the nature of snow — and the amounts of snow falling. So, later, from the internet, I learned that the most snow recorded in one year was 2,334 inches on Mount Rainier in Washington state. And the world’s largest snowflake was measured at Fort Keogh, Montana on January 28, 1887. It was measured at 15 inches across and 8 inches thick and did indeed make the Guinness Book of Records. And that was enough research for one day, I thought. 

  As we left the snowbound lake to the energetic young ones, I ruminated: The walk was well worth it today. I scooped up a fist full of snow and let it fly. Felt good to be a kid again.