If I were still in elementary school, still getting hand-written report cards with notes from my teacher, that's what this semester's note would say. That I am ridiculously appreciative of every snowflake.
It was a little embarrassing, when one of my co-workers said it to the guy that's the president of our parent company at lunch the other day. But I don't know how to not be completely filled with glee at the merest hint of soft, fluffy snowflakes falling outside the window.
People are like, haven't you ever seen snow before? Didn't it ever snow in Texas?
And I say yes, there was that time in 1991 when it snowed over a foot in North Texas. There was that time when we took our engagement photos when it snowed.
But do I have memories of building snowmen or catching big flakes on my tongue or shoveling the driveway as a kid? No. Because it snowed like four times ever, and then we moved to College Station and it snowed never. More often, it just sleeted and we called it snow, and everything in Texas shut down. The snow was never fluffy, but it made a nice crunch when you stomped around in it. Snow-people were basically impossible, unless they were really small. It was never deep enough for angels, though it did pack decently well for snowballs if your goal was to hurt your opponent.
Oh, we tried. We tried all those things, because that's what you do when it "snows." But it was so rare that every snow day was filled with joy, with calm, with relaxation. With wet cotton gloves and red cheeks and static cling. With warmth and wood fires and hot chocolate and blankets and books.
It snows here, pretty often. We haven't had any big, deep snows since Thanksgiving, but we get snow flurries and a few hours of what look like blizzards — to me — here and there, and a little bit of pileup on our cars or in our yard, and my grin is so wide. I go for walks as it drifts downward and I smile and I throw my arms up and I thank God that beauty like this exists.
Thank you for each perfect snowflake.
Driving home from work, I pass by a field of black cows every day. And this particular day, the snow was swirling across the road, and I was smiling, and I looked to my right to say hi to the cows as I passed. The cows were just standing there, eating, as little piles of crystal formed across their backs, bright against their dark hides. And I laughed, because the cows were covered in snow and didn't even mind!
The snow blows past the office windows and I say "it's snowing!" and I crane my neck to see better. I look out the front windows to our cars and say "it's starting to pile up!"
My co-workers look at this, at me, like it's nothing to be excited about. Most of the north and northeast feels the same I suspect.
But I hope that I continue to appreciate each unique flurry. Because each one is beautiful, and worth getting excited over.