Snow!

One February morning when the temperature dropped below freezing, rain that had been falling for days turned to snow.  My cat Peekay has rarely seen snow and was eager to know what he was witnessing through the sliding glass door that is his window on the world. Before long, the temperature rose, the blowing shards of snow grew watery, and suddenly Peekay once again saw only rain.

That night when he snuggled in next to me on the couch, I told him stories about the magic of snow.

“Peekay,” I began, “Kit and I once lived at a place called Boomerang Creek where winters were long and snow turned everything white.”  I then recounted one cold January when snow fell in the night while we and our three cats were sleeping. First, a lone flake floated down, then another and countless more. How many I cannot say. But for hours, flakes fell—circling, dancing, spinning, twirling…floating, falling everywhere. 

By morning, the dark line between sky and ground had disappeared on a canvas of brilliant white.  We awakened to a silent stillness that comes only from snow, snow, snow. The radio clicked on, connecting us to the outside world.  We listened for news of local school closings, permission to snuggle a while longer in bed under our cozy down comforter with Fanny, Scribbles and Pooh.  Snowed in, it was ours and ours alone.  The child in us whispered let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

On that magical day, Kit built a fire in the Buck Stove while I made each of us a cup of hot coffee and steamed milk.  Before taking our places near the fire, we looked out on steady, blowing snow that was predicted to continue all day and throughout the coming night. Cozy under our lap blankets, we took turns reading aloud from A Gentleman in Moscow—a miraculous novel by Amor Towles.  

The story is set in 1922 in Moscow following the Russian Revolution. Thirty-year-old Count Alexander Rostov—a “Former Person” (referring to someone born into an aristocratic family)—is sentenced by a Bolshevik tribunal to house arrest within the walls of Moscow’s luxurious Metropol Hotel for the remainder of his life. For the next thirty years, he adjusts to life in the tiny attic quarters he is assigned.  Because he is forbidden to leave the hotel on penalty of death, his encounters with snow take place secretly on the hotel’s roof and in memories from his childhood.

Later that morning, I bundled up and stepped outside to feel the cold morning air. Tiny snowflakes touched my face and I felt wonderfully alive. Looking across the meadow, tall clusters of golden ornamental grasses stood out in stark contrast to the inland sea of white on which the grasses appeared to float. Cedars bowed under the weight of snow captured on their outstretched boughs.  Save for the crunch of my boots against the snow and the chatter of birds, all was silent. 

Spring will arrive this month in the Sierra Foothills, and Peekay is still waiting to experience the snow I’ve been describing. From a nearby bookshelf, I take out my copy of Snow—a Caldecott Honor book written and illustrated by my friend Uri Shulevitz—and begin to turn the pages.   The book is a lyrical expression of joy through the eyes of a child who experiences the beauty of snow falling on a small town in Poland.  Soon, Peekay’s eyes close and he begins to softly purr as he imagines himself leaping up to capture snowflakes along with the boy and dog in the story. “Yes,” I think to myself, “that is the magic of snow.”

…Circling and swirling, spinning and twirling,
Dancing, playing, there, and there,
Floating, floating through the air,
Falling, falling everywhere.
And rooftops grow lighter and lighter
The rooftops are white.
The city is white.
“Snow,” said the boy.