Some of my best memories of growing up are of playing in the snow with my brothers. When we lived on Red Mountain Road, outside the village of New Denver, up the highway and 2 km down a gravel road, we had lots of snow. We had to walk on that icy road through the forest to the school bus, all bundled up and roasting in our snow suits, while our breath curled out like faint dragon smoke. Sounds like a grandma story, but it’s true.

When we got home, the things we would do with snow! We’d build sledding runs down the driveway, which my rambunctious brothers would do snowboard jumps from, while I of course slid down on my butt, thanks very much! We’d build giant snow men bigger than us, heaving up the big snowballs together and decorating our creation with a hat and face.

On really cold days, when the top of the four feet of snow was a frozen crust, we’d tromp along on top of it, as delicately as we could in our mega snow boots. We would see how far we could get before our feet would break the crust and leave us half stuck in snow and laughing as we hauled ourselves out again.

When we moved into town, we still had to contend with the snow, and a family chore was shoveling the snow off the roof. It was very satisfying to work together, kind of like an old pioneers, resisting the snow’s urge to wrap our home in a sparkling white blanket of silence. Up there, seeing everything covered in snow, with more thick flakes falling through the trees and kissing our rosy cheeks, you could just take a deep breath and be happy.

Now we’re on the mild west coast so snow is more of a temporary decoration than anything else. Still, there’s wonder and beauty in that first snow fall of the season. Here’s my little one gazing out at it.