Snow is peaceful.
This thought keeps resonating through my being as I experience my first-ever northeast winter. I find that I intensely love the raw beauty of the snow. Right now, the snow pack is about two feet deep, with drifts and piles from the snow plows that exceed 10 feet in height. I’m not quite gutsy enough, in this recovery from my knee replacement, to don snow pants and go sledding. Yet.
I’ve always wondered what the big deal was about New England winters. Living here, I finally understand. The snow is respected, but not feared. Nobody panics when a nor’easter comes through. There’s no huge lines at the store or anything. People prepare in advance to have the essentials — coffee, TP, and bread — on hand. Once the storm is imminent, people get home and settle in for the duration.
Then the snow falls silently, blanketing the area with its majesty. It amazes me how it coats the tree branches like the “flocking” of Christmas trees from my childhood (no, we never had a flocked tree, but I always wondered why people liked them). The morning after the storm, if it’s sunny, the snow in nearby fields looks like shimmering white velvet. It crunches underfoot to proclaim winter’s majesty.
My favorite view is from my couch with a cup of something warm and a purring cat. I’m no dummy — watching it from the warm comfort of my home is the best part.