My best friend and I have a tradition. For as long as I can remember, on the very first snow, she calls me to tell me all about it. And even though she knows that in a month she’ll be cursing the blistering winds and ice (hey, there, Chicago), for a few minutes we’re both silly girls and excited for the first time for trees look that look like sugar and quiet flakes that glide.
She describes what everything looks like and I sigh, and smile, and hold my heart because it hurts just a little.
Oddly enough, earlier today I had found this snowy image on Pinterest and stuck it on my Mood board. It was the first time I had thought of snow this season – and I had wondered when I might get that special call.
I have another friend who, ever year, has the quintessential New England experience of driving out to a snowy Christmas tree farm, traipsing through the rows to find just the right one, and cutting it down with hands and tools and holiday spirit. I always wanted to do that. I’d be of zero use in the carrying part, and possibly the cutting down part, but I know I’d be excellent at the picking it out part, the taking pictures part, and the jumping up and down squeeing part. I might also excel at the “Hey, I’m cold, here is some spiked hot chocolate in a thermos,” part, but that might impede the cutting part a bit.
Adding value, that’s my job.
I’ll never really have snow, but I’m so thankful for my little snowy traditions. It’s funny how things become a part of you, even if you’re not there to be a part of it. Where, for a few moments, in a hurried day, thousands of miles away gets to be right here in my mind’s eye, and I get to laugh and wonder with a friend whom I love and miss dearly.
And I don’t even need to put on Sorrels to do it.