The First Snow

It happens every year. Every year there is the first fall of snow. Every autumn late in the season, there is a week when the temperatures dip below freezing. And as this is Buckeye Country, where a week without precipitation would be considered drought conditions, it is guaranteed that during this week of below freezing temperatures there will be some amount of snow.

And yet, when this week hits, as it has this week, somehow civilization is shocked. Seminary students and parents start to question whether they can make it on the roads. Some schools decide they have to have a three-hour delay. Drivers forget that they have ever driven in such conditions. Chaos ensues for those few white hours.

Although today's snow consisted of an enormous half an inch, by noon the sunshine had eradicated any evidence of the event. The citizens of Buckeye Country know that it happened, and they know the next snow will be worse. But they will be just as surprised, even with this pre-season sign from the sky.

For in the weeks to come, the weather will warm enough to make weak minds forget the First Snow's premonitions of winter. And then it will be too late. Old Man Winter will take them unawares; the sun will hide its face from them; men's hearts will turn cold if they do not heed the First Snow.

This house is prepared. Today the heat and the feather bed and the down comforter all came out of hibernation. But even in the cold and darkness of winter, hope and comfort can be found, warmth's promise to come again. The hopping of bright red cardinals on snow-covered branches. The footprints of woodland creatures in the snow. The waddling of ducks and geese on ice-covered ponds. Life continues even in perilous times. The greatest reward is enduring to the day when the sun will return, casting out darkness, thawing the frozen earth, renewing.

But for now, the task at hand is to find joy in each day despite the damn weather. Or maybe to spite it. Whichever works best on the given day.