Snow day

Here comes another snowstorm.

Just two days ago, after weeks of waiting, I finally saw the real shape of the deck floor again. The porch steps reappeared. The roofline felt familiar. The last storm had buried everything so deeply that it took time—patient, quiet time—for the house to reveal itself again.

And then yesterday, New York decided to start over.

It was steady snow. Soft, consistent, unwavering. It fell through the night and kept falling into the afternoon. Not heavy, just faithful. And somehow, that steadiness was enough to cover everything once more.

The bunny tracks disappeared.
The delicate deer footprints—gone.
The faint tire line from the mail truck—erased.
Even the shy bit of green that had bravely pushed through the previous snow at the corner of the yard surrendered again beneath a fresh white blanket.

Snow has a quiet authority like that.

From the last storm, I learned my lesson: if you wait until it stops completely, shoveling becomes nearly impossible. So I went out for a mid-storm clearing last night. This snow was different—dense and heavy. The kind that packs well. The kind children secretly hope for.

Perfect sledding snow. Perfect snowman snow.

I couldn’t let that go to waste. Maybe this would be the last good snow of the year.

I set my shovel aside and searched for something to slide on. No sled—why don’t I own a sled?—so I grabbed a thick sheet of plastic wrap instead. It would have to do. The stairs from the deck to the backyard had disappeared under snow, forming a perfect little hill. The snow was thick enough to cushion, firm enough to glide.

Down I went.

Snow slipped into my short boots, crept into my socks, dusted my gloves. It was cold and wonderful and completely worth it. I laughed—really laughed—and decided the hill needed to be longer. So I added more snow to extend the slope. A few more runs. Maybe a few more after that.

Eventually, I returned to my “responsible” task and cleared the upper deck. But the woods that I looked over from upper deck were too beautiful to rush. Everything was quiet. The trees stood tall and powdered white. The world felt paused.

So I built snowmen.

This snow was truly ideal—solid and cooperative. Their round bodies held firm even when strong gusts of wind passed through. I tucked eucalyptus leaves into their hands, and they stood there proudly, as if they had always belonged in with beautiful wood background.

At some point in life, we stop going out to play in the snow. I remember spending entire snow days outside when I was young. Later, when my son was little, we did the same. Then somewhere along the way, it stopped. I don’t even remember when.

Why do we stop?

Snowstorms can bring inconvenience. Delays. Cancellations. Trouble for the city and for daily routines. But sometimes they also bring something else—a forced pause. A reminder.

When the world slows you down, maybe it’s an invitation.

Go outside. Slide down the hill. Build the snowman. Let snow sneak into your boots.

You might be surprised to find that the joy you thought you outgrew is still waiting for you—right there under a fresh blanket of snow.