Pausing

Today in snowed in Atlanta. That’s right. It snowed in the city where at points this summer I was scared if I breathed too heavily I might actually burn the inside of my esophagus from the sheer heat outside. Also the same city where I was seriously concerned my dachshund’s paws might melt into the pavement.

But it was magical. Granted, for most of the snowfall I was sitting inside my office at work, staring at clumps of snow making their way past my 14th floor window and then in traffic on my way home, but there is something about that feeling of knowing everyone bundled up in their cars around you is feeling just a little like a kid who might get out on a snow day tomorrow.

A few years ago I lived in Boston and even there, there was something magical about that first winter snowfall. Of course, by the last snowfall, it wasn’t winter. It was May. And there were still piles of sludge on the streets. And I literally cried when it started snowing. So yeah, not so much magical as maybe an indication of depression that time.

But tonight, when it started falling, I started thinking about being a kid and playing in the snow. And I remembered what I think I still consider one of the best weeks of my life.

It was in the mid nineties sometime. Definitely after 5th grade and before 8th, but I can’t remember when exactly. It had snowed in my hometown in North Carolina—like big time snow. It covered the streets and the yards and the trees and the houses. It was that kind of snowfall that leaves everything quiet (at least in the south) because cars don’t drive out in it and everyone stays at home. And it felt like a glorious holiday. My dad stayed home from work, I could roam the neighborhood streets with my sled and every other kid was equally freed up for their time.

The first day we discovered a hill for sledding in one of our neighbors backyards and for the remaining week of being out of school, my brother and I would wake up early every morning, and head for that hill. We’d stop by our friend’s houses and get them to come along and usually by midday the hill was filled with people. And over and over and over again we would sled down the hill and trek back up it, pausing occasionally for snowball wars.

I remember thinking that one of the best parts about that week was that all of the snow rendered the electric fences for all of the dogs in the neighborhood useless—they were now under so much snow that the shock collars didn’t work. So all of my favorite neighborhood dogs were running wild and I think, even as a kid, I could appreciate their freedom. I knew there was something awesome about everyone—even Tipper and Spunky—being free to do what they wanted.

So I guess that’s what I think of when I see snow. Freedom. I forgot that for a little while in Boston, but tonight, as I was sitting in my condo watching the flakes come down, I remembered again. Whether it’s freedom from having to go to school tomorrow, or from work obligations or just from thinking about all the stuff in your head for a brief moment when you’re watching pure white coat everything, that first snow always feels like life is pausing for a second. And a pause is always nice I think.