I grew up in northern Vermont where snow was almost a constant. Spring waited until May, followed by a brief summer and briefer fall. By October, snow regained it's rule. Roads that were snow-blocked for days and drifts as high as power lines were common parts of that winter experience. Some loved it. They strapped on their skis or climbed onto their snowmobiles and went out to enjoy their winter wonderland.
I hated that white stuff. I had no interest in winter hobbies. I hated wading through it, shoveling through it, driving through it. I don't claim to be a fast learner. I spent most of my first half-century coping with it, accepting it. Until the November day when I climbed on a plane headed for Georgia. The world was white and the temperature was 6F, when we took off. Two hours later, I arrived to fall leaves and temperatures in the 60's. Sure I'd known it was warmer in the south, but the concept had seemed surreal. Reality arrived that day. Six months later, I had a home and job in Atlanta.
Snow no longer reigns. Long fragrant springs are followed by hot summers that bake the arthritis out of my bones. Fall arrives late and winter has only a couple of weeks to make it's presence known. "It's Snowing!" means that a few flakes are falling from the sky. Anything that accumulates on the ground is considered a blizzard, even if it melts off before noon.
I was surprised when someone asked if I'd had trouble adjusting to the climate. Sunshine and warmth require little adjustment. But once a year, just about this time, a small pang of loss creeps into my heart. Just for a minute, I dream of snow-covered hills and trees, caroling in the winter night, a world filled with pristine white.
Just for a minute, I'd let it snow.