She loves the snow. She is oblivious to the chill. She sits in the frozen snow on her knees as she carves out snow hearts and builds tiny snowmen she names "Snowie." Yesterday she went out at dusk dressed only in her clothes, her earmuffs, and gloves. She "forgot" her coat.
We never forgot our coats, mainly because our parents were determined to keep us outside in the snow for hours. We were shoved feet first into outfits that covered us from head to toe. We could hardly move in our snow outfits, and heaven forbid if we had to pee. When you went out in the snow in Pennsylvania or Indiana, you were out until you couldn't feel your feet, your fingers, or your nose. Then, and only then, were you allowed back inside the house.
I forget what it is like to enjoy the snow. Once you hit driving age, snow becomes something you dread. It's a chore to scrape it off your windshield and to start up your vehicle to warm-up enough to keep it moving down the ice-covered roads. Yesterday when I accompanied my daughter outside in the snow, I was putting up a good front for her, but as we stomped our way through the frozen backyard, I could feel myself loosing up.
I helped her build a snowman and told her stories of how my father helped us make faces on our snowmen using spray paint. We tried to create a snow fort, but the snow has been here for days and is no longer soft and fluffy. To build, you must first kick in the snow with your boots to loosen it. The time of rolling the snow over and over until you have a big ball has passed. Instead, our snowman was one piece with a flat hat, two sticks for arms, rocks for eyes and a nose, and a twig for a mouth. I forgot that my head was cold. I enjoyed myself. But not half as much as I enjoy watching my daughter make her own snow memories.
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