In one of my happiest childhood memories, it is nighttime in north Texas, and I am standing with my brother Anthony in the middle of the street in the thickest snowfall I have ever seen. Enormous, fluffy flakes, pink in the light from the sodium vapor streetlamp, are drifting down in their own good time. They’re so big that they hit with audible little cracks and stick like pancakes to our jackets and the street. As Anthony and I stand there in the midst of all that beauty, with awe and wonder in our hearts, we know beyond any doubt that this gift from heaven is going to close down school in the morning.
Small wonder, then, that this Texas kid still finds snow to be the truest form of magic.
I haven’t seen snow in five years. But yesterday, we woke up to find a thin sheet of white on the ground. It quickly melted, but this morning it was back again–and still falling. So I put on my galoshes and coat and went out to play in the snow. And I wasn’t the only one. This part of Germany doesn’t get heavy snowfall, so lots of people were out with their dogs or out with their friends, laughing and talking and enjoying the holiday weather.
Snow makes familiar sights new. Take this backyard sculpture, which is a favorite of mine: I think he looks very dignified with his mask of snow.
I thought the red berries were pretty in the snow, but others weren’t so pleased with the change.
The thrushes were trying to eat the berries without getting dumped on. One thrush had developed a system that rendered him impossible to photograph: he would fly in, grab a berry, and flutter away in a furious hurry to beat the snow sliding off the branches.
After a while, my fingers got too cold to work the camera, which is why the thrush is a little blurry. So I came home to a hot cup of fruit tea with honey, homemade gingerbread hearts, and my German Advent wreath.
I hope you have a magical holiday too.
To read my latest blog posts, please click on the “Green and Pleasant Land” logo at the top of this page. Photos taken in December, 2011, in Rodenbach, Germany. Text and photos copyright 2011 by Clare B. Dunkle.