Who remembers when snow was fun? I remember the joy that falling snow once brought to me as a child growing up in Brooklyn. It was not unlike the thrill I would receive at the prospect of a day at the beach or the annual church picnic with its built-in excursion to an actual swimming pool. Sitting inside of our row home in Coney Island, my siblings and I would watch the steel colored sky through the street facing window of my parents bedroom in hopes of that magical gift from the heavens. I can still remember one of my brothers, too young at that time to quite get a grip on his consonant blends, running from the window with the joyous proclamation that the “NO” was falling. It’s still a big joke in my family today though he is nearly thirty years old.

I remember the feeling of nervous, excited energy as the flakes of snow, falling like manna would thicken to a feathery consistency, and one of us children would announce with ceremonious ritual that “It was sticking.” “It” was the snow and “sticking” referred to the unconscious scientific knowledge that the ground was cold enough that the falling snow would keep building in soft icy layers instead of melting and washing away.

As a young fashionista my favorite clothing after my bathing suit and flower girl dress would likely have been my snow gear. There was the tender age, when each piece of my snow ensemble actually had a name. Bib overall snowsuit, mittens, snow boots, winter hat, etc… Then came the later years when my siblings and I would creatively replace any equipment we had lost or grown out of. By that age we knew that socks could be the perfect replacement for missing gloves and that one must sometimes endure the sting of the cold, Mid-Atlantic wind on one’s bare head in order to enjoy the unlooked-for luxury of a romp in the snow with one’s best friends from the neighborhood. And by the time we reached junior high school we learned that Vaseline applied generously to the face was the genius supplement to a scarf, tied ninja fashion, around the lower portion of our faces and necks.

Who could possibly forget the games that could only be played when there was thick snowfall on the ground. Ragged snowmen and angels quickly populated the community while military forts of snow were erected in front yards of the neighborhood. They were a perfect solution for us kids who imagined that we could build igloos and yet were forced to retrench once faced with the bald, unromantic fact that we had neither the skill of the Inuit, nor were we in possession of the quality of snow that makes such things possible.

I remember actually feeling sorry for my mother who oddly enough seemed to prefer the indoors to our snowy paradise, and my father who seemed to interact with snow only to shovel it. I vaguely remember the howling cries of my youngest brother those times that he was kept inside because he was either too young to keep up with the company of the older children, or ordered to remain inside because of a cold. Though I saved my deepest pity for him, pity still ran not so deep as to hold me back from my own pleasures. And once my sister and I were old enough to find sly ways of enjoying the high boy:girl ratio in the neighborhood, we loved the snow even more, choosing to endure the brutality of the boys who chased us through the streets only to knock us down into icy, packed snow.

One of the biggest travesties of aging is that you all too soon reach the time in life where snowfall incites a range of emotions that are far from joy. —Disappointment, panic, anxiety, disgust, fear and perhaps even rage. That frosty morning spent shoveling out the car, giving new meaning to the term “back breaking.” The wretched purgatory that an airport becomes when Old Jack Frost grounds flights and strands travelers where they are. The embarrassing spill taken on slushy city streets. The shut down of mass transit. The delays getting into the office. The oppressive heaviness of snow boots that seem to weigh your soul down as you long for the smell of spring and the heat of summer. The oldness of your hat, scarf and gloves by February. The treachery of navigating the thruway in inclement weather. The addiction to the weather channel and mobile weather apps. Awaiting the word from the boss and schools about possible shut down. The apocalyptic draining of the grocery store as your fellow citizens anticipate the siege.

And yet, somewhere, way, way, way down deep in your heart, you remember that you once thrilled at the hint of a flurry. Your heart positively sang praise at the morning reveal of an unexpected nighttime snowfall. The secret enjoyment of a half hour sitting alone in the pristine snow of the backyard, talking to the characters of your childish imagination. —The left over burning sensation of a ice-laden snowball to the face, by some upstart of a head hunter among your classmates and even the sweet pain of thawing frozen feet upon returning to the indoor world.

Mothers do well to lean over their sleeping babies and dread the time when they too will be old enough to hate snow.