Snow days

Twenty-six inches of snow at Central Park. Fifteen inches at my dad's house, around 17 at the airport near my hometown. Not quite that much where I am.

I tell myself to enjoy it; this, after all, is why we stay in northern climes - this is the season we mean when we say "the four seasons." A peaceful feeling does settle in when the snow is falling and you're cozy and warm inside, looking out at it, and no one has broken out the snowplows and snow throwers yet.

Once upon a time I was learning to cross-country ski and it was fun going out on a weekday when no one else was on the trail. I wonder why I stopped doing that ... These days, I prefer to live my winters vicariously, behind glass.

I like a cold bite in the lungs and a nip in the nose and cheeks; I would rather be outside when it's 20-below than when it's 95 and muggy. Truth be told, though, best of all I like April and May and September and October, when it's not too hot and not too cold. The spring, with its promise of new life; the fall, with its abundance of tomatoes fresh off the vine in the backyard.

It always seems the biggest snowstorms are in February and March, and when they come it's a sign - soon it will be spring, soon this will be over; here's a blast of winter, enjoy it or endure it while you can, because soon it will be gone.