picturesque

In our house, the bedroom that we sleep in is upstairs, and when you come out you're on a landing which leads to another bedroom and a bathroom. From the landing, there's open space that looks down on the living room.  When we moved here in August, I exclaimed "This would be perfect for Christmas!" I guess imagining myself in that scenario as an eight-year-old, coming out of my small bedroom and looking over the landing to see that Santa had left many presents under the tree.

Of course, we have a tree in the living room and it is a lovely sight to see from above, but I am not eight, nor will I wake up Christmas morning to see that Santa left copious gifts under the tree while I was sleeping.

The knowledge of which created in me a childish elation when, this morning, Garret left the room and exclaimed "OH! WOW!" Murgy and I were still laying in bed - I had promised I'd be up in two minutes, but intended to stay another twenty (it was one of those perfect blanket mornings where you're warm and toasty under the covers, but not too hot - just perfect).  I jumped up - had Santa arrived? (honest subconscious emotional thought) and then I heard Garret say, "IT SNOWED!!!"

Surprise snow is rather exciting, especially when viewed through a wall of windows from a second-story landing that looks down on a rather Christmassy living room.  I'd heard tale of snow coming last night, but it was raining when I fell asleep around midnight, so I really thought nothing of it.

I went out on the deck and snapped this picture, which, though I will say is a pretty picture, is nothing compared to what was actually here.

Stepping out on the deck, I felt the surprisingly warm air that accompanies snow - it's winter at its best - not bitter cold, just cool and welcoming.  There was total silence - the kind that's a presence of calm rather than an absence of sound - and untouched, marshmallow snow covered absolutely everything.  The tree branches outside of our house were coated in this cozy way that I had never seen before, extending their arms toward us in a hug. This is not the snow of the suburbs or the city, salty around the edges from plows and tires, sunken in from heavy boots and heaving pedestrians.  This, is the snow poets write about - deliciously quiet, a feather-filled blanket, seemingly put there just for us.

Garret took a picture or two as well, on his fancy pants camera.  I took mine with my phone, and said, "Mine didn't come out good," and he said neither had his.  Truthfully, I'll bet his pictures look beautiful enough for a calendar, but they still won't do it justice.  "Maybe this is just one of those things that's really pretty but doesn't photograph well," he said.  I think he's right.


.lsm