After a literal lifetime of spending time here I know that snowfall does not happen very often on our little neck of the coast, but that is exactly what occurred last night. At about eight Matt came into the living room announcing that the flakes were flying. I had to see for myself so I peeked out the front door through the hole in the middle of our only holiday decoration, a wreath. It was almost shocking to see a dusting of snow on our front deck and for a moment I tried to imagine it was a dream.
It would have been easy to miss if he had not caught sight of it early since I woke up at 3AM to the loud pinging of sleet on the skylights. The sound was enough to keep me up for over an hour as it furiously pelted down, blanketing everything around us with its crusty, glistening layer, wiping out all evidence of the fluffy white flakes that came just hours before it.
If it had not been so dark out, I would have recorded the pretty scene of flakes falling through the wreath. It appeared so serene because I was on the side of the door where it was 68 degrees, not the other where it was 28. Can you say holy-mother-f’ing-cold? I sure can, and did, as I made crying noises resembling that of a wounded wookie. This is the part where I give thanks for wool socks, adjustable thermostats and scarves. Winter has officially arrived.