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What Becomes of Snow?
Dec. 4th, 2003 10:55 pmThe first snowfall of the winter is happening right now. I love the way snow looks when it's falling, and I love the way snow looks before anyone messes with it--a view I used to appreciate a lot more often back when I lived in the boonies. Here, a flake can't hit the ground without someone deciding something needs to be done with it. No more shimmering soft carpets of white velvet and diamond dust for me.
There aren't as many trees here as there were at my old house, so I miss the way ice looks on branches too. I don't miss the trees falling over because of the ice, but I do miss the way they looked. After an ice storm, when the sun comes out, the forest looked like the trees were made of spun glass. Every twig and bramble became a beautiful sculpture, preserved under a layer of ice that made it sparkle and shine. There was also a delicate little thread of danger in seeing the forest gleam like that, reinforced every time the wind blew a little--the trees would creak and groan and snap, and ice would fall to the ground like a shower of broken crystal. One of the prettiest and most frightening things I saw as a child was when the entire crown of a tree snapped off like a twig and fell in the road. It was a crack like a gunshot, followed by the tinkling sound of falling ice hitting frozen snow, and then the crash of the tree itself hitting ground. It was funny, just seeing this huge old tree break off at the top like a little branch. All because of a little frozen water.
Here, the only time snow manages to stay quietly on the ground is if it falls in the middle of the night in a poorly traveled area. And people plow it, and salt it, and dirty it up with their cars and their feet, so the only time I get to appreciate it is when it's actually falling, like it is now. It's still different, though, because the snow sparkles as it falls by the dirty yellow light of sodium streetlamps instead of the soft white glow of our one lonely outdoor light.
I always told myself that I hated living in the middle of nowhere and couldn't wait to move to the city. I guess you have to leave a place to find out how much you really love it in your heart.
There aren't as many trees here as there were at my old house, so I miss the way ice looks on branches too. I don't miss the trees falling over because of the ice, but I do miss the way they looked. After an ice storm, when the sun comes out, the forest looked like the trees were made of spun glass. Every twig and bramble became a beautiful sculpture, preserved under a layer of ice that made it sparkle and shine. There was also a delicate little thread of danger in seeing the forest gleam like that, reinforced every time the wind blew a little--the trees would creak and groan and snap, and ice would fall to the ground like a shower of broken crystal. One of the prettiest and most frightening things I saw as a child was when the entire crown of a tree snapped off like a twig and fell in the road. It was a crack like a gunshot, followed by the tinkling sound of falling ice hitting frozen snow, and then the crash of the tree itself hitting ground. It was funny, just seeing this huge old tree break off at the top like a little branch. All because of a little frozen water.
Here, the only time snow manages to stay quietly on the ground is if it falls in the middle of the night in a poorly traveled area. And people plow it, and salt it, and dirty it up with their cars and their feet, so the only time I get to appreciate it is when it's actually falling, like it is now. It's still different, though, because the snow sparkles as it falls by the dirty yellow light of sodium streetlamps instead of the soft white glow of our one lonely outdoor light.
I always told myself that I hated living in the middle of nowhere and couldn't wait to move to the city. I guess you have to leave a place to find out how much you really love it in your heart.
