I’m sitting in my sister’s living room, beside her fireplace, watching snow falling on a pine stand and a corn field. The flakes are small, but growing, and have been falling pretty consistently for three or four days. It’s a peaceful sight. The snowflakes seem to dance a little as they float lightly to the ground. Unlike rain, which seems to free-fall with rocket precision, snow looks like tiny parachutes floating on the breeze. The piles on the benches and deck railings look like feather pillows.
The mudroom in my sister’s home is a continual collection of slushy puddles. It takes fifteen minutes and four layers to dress my children to go outside and play, and my lack of appropriate winter footwear (entirely my fault) means that I cannot set foot outside without inflicting potential hypothermic damage to my feet.
In short, while I approve of snow in theory, I believe it is flawed in its execution.