I am from the North.
The don't-forget-your-flannel-underpants North. The don't-go-outside-with-wet-hair North. The snowing-but-no-snow-days North.
I miss it.
I have lived in the southwest where I actually wore a summer sun dress on Christmas Sunday. I have lived in the south where I went for a dip in our hot tub in the backyard in the dead of winter and didn't notice I forgot my towel. I have lived on the east coast where we got dismissed from work because there was a forecast of "light flurries" and panic ensued.
As Christmas beckons closer... I am praying for a blizzard: white fluffy drifts on the side of our wood pile and something to actually get a sniffle over. I want frosted window panes and a reason to have tall winter boots and ski jackets with triple thermal layering. I want to tromp out in the snow when I go caroling and an exhilaration when I come back inside for hot chocolate and roasted chestnuts. I love the stillness of snow. The world is so still when it snows.
When I was growing up, for a short while we lived in this house that had an observation-sized bay window that faced our street. The street was broad and had a median and a single streetlight. Late in the evening, I would sit on the couch and watch out the window as the snow fell in the cast light of our street and I would wait with bated breath just watching the snowflakes fill the earth. The fireplace would be crackling behind me and somewhere from the library George Winston was playing "Peace" and that's all I felt: peace.
Now if I could only recreate that in Virginia. Where are those flannel underpants, anyway?