In the hazy decrescendo of Thursday’s nor’easter, I set out down a nearby trail through snowdrifts on cross country skis.
In my younger years, when I was a child, this was the kind of hallmark snowstorm that would have swallowed my boots whole, socks and all, sending me back into the house barefoot but happy. This was the kind of magical storm that would have captured my imagination, inspiring me to create sculptures and engage in snowball wars with my brothers and the neighborhood kids.
In the following days, a network of forts would have emerged from the pristine white surface of the yard; visitors to my childhood Northampton home would have been met by snow dragons standing guard at the driveway, painted with food coloring and frozen with buckets of water.
As it were, I am older now and, at its deepest, Thursday’s drifts barely made it to my knees. And yet, for the first time in a while, that wonder — that spark of excitement that always preceded a big snowfall — captured me just as vividly as it did when I was a youngster. Perhaps it was because Thursday’s storm marked the first time in a while I’d be able to ski (downhill or otherwise); or maybe it was because 2020 has been such a long year and, combined with last week’s good news of the new coronavirus vaccines, I was looking for a reason to celebrate.
In the storm’s aftermath, peace prevailed.
Ice crystals drifted gently down as the morning turned from overcast to blue. Trees creaked in the cold; the only other sound was the gentle “swish, swish, swish” of my skis cutting through the quiet woods. Although the air was crisp and cold, dipping below 20 degrees Fahrenheit, the exercise kept me warm. My breath dissipated in fog.
The snow-covered trees filled my heart to its brim.
With the holiday season in full swing and a new year rapidly approaching, it feels like the Earth and all of society has released a collective sigh of relief. I think Thursday’s wonderfully beautiful storm — with confetti snowflakes and icicles for tinsel — was Mother Nature’s way of celebrating along with the healthcare workers and scientists who have been laboring tirelessly to see this long-anticipated day come about.
It was like delicate white icing on a surprise cake.
Hopefully, the snow sticks around through Christmas and beyond. For now, I must go. As I write this, the wonderland outside my home office is calling to me in shades of gray and white — brilliant morning sunlight is reflecting off sparkling snow; the oak tree just beyond my window is reaching toward a bright blue sky.
My skis are leaning against the side of the house, my jacket is dry from the previous day’s excursion. I am compelled to answer.
Andy Castillo is the features editor at the Greenfield Recorder. He can be reached at acastillo@recorder.com.