The Scent of Snow

Today was the first day that I could go outside and smell that winter was hovering nearby. The leaves on the trees are half-gone, revealing skeletal limbs and branches. It is almost like the trees have peeled themselves of all adornment, ready for the judgment of the cold and snow. Nature is getting serious with itself once more. My flowers in the front garden were proud-red not too many weeks ago, now their heads are hung under that weight of autumn mist–impossibly light in the air, impossibly heavy on the petals.

Now my thoughts turn to finding mittens for everyone–“mitt-mitts”, as Tommy called them last year. 10 little mittens make 5 little pairs. Hats, boots that need to be sized, snow pants and turtlenecks, sweaters that the kids hate to wear–all need to be dug out from the corners of the closet. It is ironic. The more the trees shed their leaves, the more clothing I have to pile on the protesting children. They were made for backyards with bare feet, especially Tommy who has been known to venture outside with nothing more on than a Kool-aid smile.

This year, I feel a bit of kicking and screaming going on inside me as winter approaches. We live in the foothills of the Rockies. The Great Plains come to a screeching halt, rudely interrupted by the mountains. Sometimes I look out my back door and see the fog skimming the mountains, near to the west. When it lifts, it leaves a white stain of snow behind. When it lifts, it takes more sunshine with it, like an eagle carrying away its prey.

I am not ready for boots to replace little bare feet. But it is time to pull the blanket of the year up around our shoulders and snuggle in for a few months. It is inevitable and not worth protesting too much. Winter will bring its own private delights that summer can never understand–holidays, cocoa, sleds and snow angels. The Holy Night, the stars that brightly shine. A New Year, a day for love letters, maybe a blizzard. Then that first daffodil. As the white snow marches down from the nearby mountains, the green grass will march right back up, a push-and-shove battle that I am privileged to watch in my own backyard.