My sons have always...

lived in the South. They know not of the North, other than as a directional for their map books and play compasses.

They know of much sunshine and long summers. Wearing shorts in December is not unusual. They think that toboggans (or tooks), gloves and mittens are dress up clothes, for the most part. The youngest calls pants, "long-sleeved shorts."

Four years ago, we actually had a big snow for our area, maybe a whole two inches. That single day when grass did not show, is branded into their memories as a life highlight. Of course the fact that I locked us out of our house in our pajamas that morning (for the life highlight picture of us! in! snow!) is also branded into their memories. The exploits of that day are legend around the kitchen table. To their minds they built snowcastles and forts, held an hour long snowball fight, ate snow till they popped, and sledded down Breakneck Hill.

In reality, I scrambled to dress them in mismatched gloves and mittens, layers of jeans, shirts and windbreakers because they had no proper winter wear. The snowcastle was icicles on the playset, the snowball fight was ten and a half minutes long, two minutes longer than the eating snow lasted; and the sledding was a gentle slope in the neighbor's yard on a piece of rumpled cardboard.

Like my own childhood spent in the South, any forecast of temperatures that hover around the freezing mark cause prediction and excitement like none other that snow might, just might, just possibly absolutely could if I think it hard enough, occur. In the morning at the breakfast table, they peer at the indoor/outdoor thermometer and exclaim, "It's 29.5 degrees! It could snow!" And then they quickly look outside as though the mere fact that the actual degrees have now been pronounced into the air via speaking, that a mysterious, climatological, meteorological, weather event of SNOW can now occur--for they are present to watch the flakes fall.

I cannot help but grin through this whole process. I have great pent up memories of my own hopes as a child, growing up in the South, for snow to occur. I even have the memory of that amazing Christmas that was truly white and did involve the whole snow fort, snow sledding, snow eating and snowballing legends.

When I lived in Missouri for a time, I was incredulous that a meteorologist could actually forecast snow--and then it would happen. In the South, that forecast is usually pipedream stuff.

So through my children, I relive their hopes for a beautiful day (I said day) of snow. Into those 12 hours we could truly pull out and pack on the layers of clothes, find the cardboard that would do, play till our lips were frozen into smiles, and create the dreams that keep us warmly alive.