In the midst of packing our suitcases and cleaning the apartment, Aleksa and I almost missed the faint puffs of snow falling outside the window. It was 4 A.M. — clearly, we had lost track of time — and our home was filled with the familiar, white glow of snow. It was a feeling I had almost forgotten: to be in awe of something you didn’t know your life was lacking.
If you’ve been lucky, you’ve experienced one of these quiet, gentle snowfalls. Or maybe your perspective has been soured by some harsh, blistering, blizzard. One of the most exciting things about going to college in New York was witnessing several of my classmates experience their first snow.
Many Americans who reside in warm weather states have never seen a single snowflake; this was the case for many of my friends hailing from Alabama, Georgia, Florida, or Texas. When they awoke one morning to the fresh, white blanket coating the streets outside our residence hall in Manhattan, they threw on their coats (that their parents had purchased for this very possibility) and ran to Central Park, enraptured by this delightful, new experience. I thought that was really endearing. Nevertheless, I had the good mind to stay inside as a well-adjusted New Englander: who needs snow when you’ve got a warm dorm bed?
But these last few years, it’s begun to snow less and less in this area (I’m certain its climate change). Manhattan experienced a record-long snow drought last year that only ended this past February. Even in Connecticut, the snow has been abysmally absent. My father tinkers less and less with his snow plough; my mom hardly seems to wear her snow boots anymore.
I can’t remember the last time it snowed before Christmas, either. It’s probably been years. I remember that 2017 had been a particularly snowy December (that was the same December my college friends experienced their first snow). After that, it’s quite blurry to me. I can remember visiting the snowy mountains in Zlatibor, Serbia in January 2021. I remember snow on the ground this February (and I believe I wrote a blog about it.)
I guess what I am getting on about is that I can’t remember the last time I was completely gripped by the sight of snowfall. This used to be a wonderful feeling as a kid: when you’d wake in the middle of the night and “catch” it falling silently outside your window. You’d look out onto the street and try to place these objects covered in snow: your neighbor’s cars now two white lumps. Or the garbage cans — now just odd, vanilla pillars at the end of the driveway.
There was also the rush of being the first to know about it — at least for me, anyhow. I’d crawl out of bed and tiptoe to the window to see if it had happened, if all those news anchors were right and all my parent’s groaning wasn’t for nothing. And what a bummer it was when I’d wake and there’d be nothing on the ground.
But the delight of seeing that wondrous powder fall from the sky … and the world outside completely untouched by footprints or pawprints or car tracks just yet … it made me feel as though the snow existed entirely for me. That I was awake and aware of its beauty before anyone else could ruin it.
As far as this week’s weather predictions go, it appears the tri-state area might be in luck of a white Christmas after all: flurries are expected to fall around noon on Tuesday (Christmas Eve). According to WTNH, it could very well be a “whitish Christmas” in Connecticut, where Aleksa and I will spend the holiday.
I can remember only one, genuine white Christmas of my youth. It was when I was a fourth grader in 2009; I remember how particularly special that felt, to know that this was not just myth from the Christmas carols blasting through every store. But a real phenomenon.
There is a fourth grader in the family right now: my little cousin, Vivian. If it is indeed a white December 25th, I think she and I have to do something to celebrate. In the name of girlhood and human experience — in the name of whimsy and silliness, too.
Yours Cumulatively,
That American Girl
That American Girl 
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