We live on the shoulder of a small mountain, at about 1000 feet elevation. When my husband got home from work he suggested we drive to the top of the mountain, which is nearly 1600 feet. We left the couple inches of slush at our house, wound our way upward 600 feet, and found a good 8 inches of pristine snow, just waiting to be played in.
When we first arrived it was calm, but soon the wind whipped up and a little blizzard engulfed us. After about 10 minutes it passed, and we could spot a bit of blue sky between the clouds.
The girls ran and rolled and played, while my husband and I reminisced. 18 years ago we were standing in this very spot, surrounded by a magical snow just like this, when we fell in love with each other. We'd known each other a long time, but this was the place, and the exact scene dressed in sparkling snow, that we saw each other in a new light. We've been back here many times through the years, but this visit just felt special for my husband and me, watching our children laughing and growing up right before our eyes.
The snow would be gone the next day, the temperature rising and heavy rains washing it down the hillside, flooding rivers and lakes below. "Savor this," I kept telling myself. Just like my daughters' childhoods, these joyous moments seem to pass quickly.
On the way home we passed by an abandoned housing development. The roads, a playground, and this beautiful stone and timber fireplace gathering spot were built just before the real estate bust. The hillside behind was clear-cut in anticipation of building million dollar mega-homes on tiny lots. Someday it will be built out, maybe not as originally planned, but for now the girls enjoy this lonely playground, even on a snowy day.
