The first snow falls and it’s magical. The light flakes float from a silver sky and I sit by the window, mesmerized by the sight, watching until the flakes form a thin layer on the grass and sidewalk. It’s all hushed at 3am, so quiet you can actually hear the snow hitting the ground. I am spellbound by nature, entranced by its beauty.

And then I remember. I’ll need to drive to work in this. I’ll need to get out there early and clean off my car and shovel the driveway. I’ll have to deal with this in a way that does not involve sitting by a window sighing at the winter wonderland slowly building up outside.

I tend to romanticize snow when it’s not happening, then fight the reality of it when it does. But I remember the snowstorms of my youth so fondly. Never once in those days did I think about my parents having to get in their cars and fight the Long Island traffic, made worse by the weather. I never thought about shoveling the sidewalks, because someone else did that. All I thought about was snowmen and snow forts and sledding and wondering if school would be closed. Snow — deep, endless snow — was a major event like a birthday or Christmas. A snow day was a holiday and we celebrated with vigor. We’d bundle up in snow suits and heavy boots, my mother chasing us out of the house and into the yard where we would play until the snow stuck to our mittens and our little hands turned red with cold. Eventually we’d get called back into the house…