See the bike?
It's still dark so I don't know if it snowed last night. If it did, there's none on the windowsill so I don't have high hopes.
Here's a piece that was published many years ago in Organic Style:
It always snowed on Halloween. White trees leapt out like fists at shivering witches and ballerinas, who stumbled through the neighborhood trick-or-treating, faces up to lick flakes out of the sky. I grew up on the Great Plains of South Dakota, where snow starts early, comes on big and sticks around till lilies-of-the-valley poke through the last coarse-grained patches on the north side of the houses. I loved snow then, and still do—not shoveling and spinning-out snow, or even skiing-sledding-skating snow, but showers and flurries and vast, useless piles of the stuff. I like that snow doesn’t mean anything—I don’t feel required to understand its history or composition or to form an artistic judgment. I gaze at it, dream in it, am satisfied to find it beautiful. Of course, there’s also the wild fun of introducing yourself to someone cute by way of a soft, wet snowball. Snow is the most benign of big weather: So what if your feet get wet? Your house isn’t going to wash away. I spent one perfect birthday in a New York City café, drinking exquisite hot chocolate and watching a quilt of thick February flakes rockabye onto a Soho street ... content to loaf and reflect. Snow days (not that we got ‘em often—only when the school superintendent couldn’t make it around his block) force you to stop and actually see the loveliness. But the snow doesn’t have to be picturesque. I also like it pelting and blasting, ripping your breath away, so you have to walk with your back to the wind to be able to breathe. The Scandinavians say there’s no bad weather, only bad clothing. Mittens, earmuffs, boots, snow, joy.
Here's a piece that was published many years ago in Organic Style:
It always snowed on Halloween. White trees leapt out like fists at shivering witches and ballerinas, who stumbled through the neighborhood trick-or-treating, faces up to lick flakes out of the sky. I grew up on the Great Plains of South Dakota, where snow starts early, comes on big and sticks around till lilies-of-the-valley poke through the last coarse-grained patches on the north side of the houses. I loved snow then, and still do—not shoveling and spinning-out snow, or even skiing-sledding-skating snow, but showers and flurries and vast, useless piles of the stuff. I like that snow doesn’t mean anything—I don’t feel required to understand its history or composition or to form an artistic judgment. I gaze at it, dream in it, am satisfied to find it beautiful. Of course, there’s also the wild fun of introducing yourself to someone cute by way of a soft, wet snowball. Snow is the most benign of big weather: So what if your feet get wet? Your house isn’t going to wash away. I spent one perfect birthday in a New York City café, drinking exquisite hot chocolate and watching a quilt of thick February flakes rockabye onto a Soho street ... content to loaf and reflect. Snow days (not that we got ‘em often—only when the school superintendent couldn’t make it around his block) force you to stop and actually see the loveliness. But the snow doesn’t have to be picturesque. I also like it pelting and blasting, ripping your breath away, so you have to walk with your back to the wind to be able to breathe. The Scandinavians say there’s no bad weather, only bad clothing. Mittens, earmuffs, boots, snow, joy.