My first memory of snow is not exactly a happy one.  I was young, maybe three years old, and terrified of the cold mush falling from the sky.  I was also certain my grandfather was making it snow more as he threw snowballs into the air in an effort to convince me snow could be fun.  I was not swayed in my hatred, but would have a love-hate relationship with snow for the next two decades.  I should mention here that my next two memories are of losing a shoe in a gopher hole the moment I jumped out of the car and of breaking my foot by stopping an out of control sled with a tree and hopping around on one leg all day. In high school I picked up a love of snowboarding, and snow an I made amends and agreed to a mutual respect.   This is why I will forever remain a California girl.  I love being able to drive “to the snow”, spend a weekend, and drive back never worrying about shoveling or grocery shopping in the mess.

My first winter in Philadelphia was extremely mild.  It flurried and stuck to bushes, but nothing enough to inconvenience my life.  It was pretty, albeit slightly cold.  The next year I would stand in the middle of Market Street in wonder, as I had never witnessed main streets being shut down or department stores being closed due to weather.  I earned my snow legs that winter as I carried my groceries from the corner grocery, the bottoms of my bags scraping the surface of mid calf deep snow.  I was, once again, not convinced of the good intentions of snow.

Since that first year I have come to accept snow as a part of my wintery life, but this year has tested the limits of the contract I made with snow as a child.  As we face our third, and possibly heartiest, record-breaking snowfall of the season, I have to wonder what was I thinking? I admit, Hubby and I have had our fun.  We’ve rolled in it, posed in bikinis on a dare, trekked through half-shoveled sidewalks due to a lack of transportation, and built a giant snowman in the dark with the tot.  We’ve laughed at the dog trying unsuccessfully to find a spot on the frozen lawn in snow taller than he, and managed to foster out a cat in addition to the new one we brought in to our home.

Still, there is something warm and cozy about watching the snow fall from the porch, Hubby in one arm a cup of hot tea in the other.  No matter what this last year, the last few weeks specifically, have thrown at us we have hung on and made it through.  From the nice Jewish couple who drove me home from Acme to the friends who have offered their love and support, we have acquired the company of warmth in all forms.  We are growing stronger and continuing to make happy memories in the midst of a literal and metaphorical blizzard.  I guess I can get used to the snow.