Once again, I find myself needing to blog, and once again, I can think of nothing to write—but help is at hand. Today I’m falling back on the “writing prompts” that the Holidailies site offers for uninspired people such as myself.

Today’s prompt is “tell us a story about snow”. I’ve actually already told a little story about snow here on WordRidden. In fact, it was one of the first things I ever wrote for the site: a short piece called “Moon” about snow and the moon and a beautiful night in rural Indiana when I was a kid.

I grew up in various snowy places (the American midwest and Germany) and I went to college in a really snowy place (Massachusetts), so I have a lot of snowy memories. My earliest memories are of sledding down “Horseshoe Hill” at the back of our house in Crailsheim, Germany, when I was very young. But the bulk of my snow-related recollections probably come from the four years my family spent in Indiana. We got really ridiculous amounts of snow there—so much that my parents had to shovel it off the roof of the house to prevent a cave-in and we didn’t have school snow days so much as snow weeks. Besides the moon incident, I also remember my family cross-country skiing around the neighborhood, much to the bewilderment of the neighbors (Nordic skiing hadn’t really hit the big time in Terre Haute, Indiana at that point).

Like most kids, I guess, I loved the snow. It wasn’t until I went off to college that snow started to seem like a hassle, primarily because it made traveling home for the holidays something of a trial. Many’s the hour I spent sitting in Bradley International Airport, waiting for a delayed flight to whisk me away to more temperate climes. Also, the charm of snow starts to wear off around March, when it’s turned all dirty and slushy and you have to trudge through it at the crack of dawn to get to your morning classes.

Though certainly picturesque, the snow wasn’t a whole lot more fun when I was living in Freiburg. One winter in particular it snowed a lot, then warmed up just enough for the snow to start to melt before the temperatures plunged again, turning everything into a solid sheet of ice. While it made for a lovely-looking winter wonderland, it wasn’t terribly fun slipping and sliding all over the sidewalks in town (or, indeed, falling hard on my tailbone in the middle of the street).

Now that I live in Brighton, where the most snow we ever get is the lightest little dusting which disappears by noon, I find I really miss the snow—or the idea of it, anyway. Yeah, it’s cold and wet and makes traveling a hassle, but it’s also bright and pretty and magical. Fresh snowfall quiets the world down, cleans it up, transforms it into someplace sparkly and new. There’s something calming about watching snow flurries swirl outside the window and something satisfying about the crunch of icy crystals underfoot. With the exception of seaside cliffs, I’d say my favorite landscape is a snowy, wintry landscape: silent, alien, pristine, and perfect.

Further reading…