I like snow and I always have. As a child we lived in an old rented farm house for awhile and in the mornings when snow was expected I would wake before daylight, scratch the frost off the inside of the bedroom window so I could see if it had snowed. One of my favorite times was seeing the swing rope attached to the huge elm tree blowing in the wind, the ground and branches and buildings blanked in deep white and so coming down fast and furious. The aroma of perking coffee would waft up the stair case, and the sounds of my mother in the kitchen, my father stoking the coal stove, like music. I would dress in the dim light of "dark morning", as we called it, and clamor downstairs. In moments I would be bundled in coat and hat, gloves and heavy socks, and my little red boots, and out the door into magic land. I would head down the lane to the barns, the family hound dog racing ahead, following rabbit tracks. I took a moment to watch the cows in the corral encouraging their hay, great white clouds of breath streaming from their nostrils. "Hello cows!" I would cut through the second barn, stopping awhile to blow warm air on my fingers, listen to the munching of alfalfa, inhale the wonderful, warm barn scents, check to see any new lambs had arrived as I exited into the outdoors and passed by the sheep side of the barn. I would maybe slip through the wire fence into the south pasture and head down the hill towards the pond, across the dam and up a short hill, along the fence line, jumping in and out of drifts, the snow and wind cold and wonderful in my face. I felt utterly wild and free.
By the time I arrived back at the house, my toes and fingers numb, cheeks red, exhilarated! the kitchen was warm and smelled like bacon. My mother smiled at me and my father laughed and said, "Look at you. Our little wild child."
Yes, HeIsRisen, I like snow.
