I also remember a paper route my brother and I had. It was a ridiculous undertaking because it was in an area which was really too far away for us to service properly, but since we always had to earn our keep in some way in our household, we bravely soldiered on against the odds. I'll never forget waking up one morning to realize we had to somehow strap down a Sunday's load of papers onto our bikes and cart them almost a mile, some of it downhill. We laughed at the absurdity of this mission, slipping and sliding, our bikes tipping over every ten feet, losing papers along the way, as we came to the realization that our latest venture would have to be abandoned, as it became abundantly clear we would never make good money this way.
And yet, in the middle of this neighborhood I'd never been, tucked away on a street I must have passed by a hundred times on my walk to junior high, I relished the quiet of a peaceful Sunday morning, listening to the gentle whoosh of snow falling. It is so so subtle, the sounds of snow. Have you ever held out your tongue to capture snowflakes? That's what this morning felt like, like my brother and I were the only people on earth to witness this beauty. How gorgeous this house looked, as my brother told a story of how it was built to look like an old plantation house, and where all the servants quarters were, or at least where we imagined them to be, as each shuttered balcony housed its own private pile of snow on its railings, and the chimneys blew out a scent of woodsmoke into the air. The smell of burning fireplaces will always be the smell of winter to me, a welcome herald to the changing of the seasons, as is the clear crispness of cold air, inhaled deeply into ones' lungs. After the swampy heat of summer, physical exertion outdoors takes on a pleasurable aspect once again, as layers of clothes get removed as ones' body heat adjusts.
There is also sadness, too, as I remember the night I realized my grandmother was dying because she was too sick to come home with us, and I was maybe 7, or 8. It had started to snow after nightfall and we had been at the hospital all day. To this day, I can see myself as a child looking back at the hospital, listening to my parents speak to one another, as I tried to make out which lit window was my grandmother's. I'll never forget the way the snow looked as it fell, passing through the glow of a streetlight in that parking lot, as I turned upward to let the snow fall gently onto my face and felt its chill. It was my first encounter with death, and I associate the passing of life with winter, too.
When I wake up to snow, I think of all these things in the bright light of morning, and a feeling of safety comes over me as I drink my coffee and look through the frozen panes of glass. It is harsh, but it is also bearable, and quite beautiful. Stay warm :)
