You see, as a kid, when the seasons turned cold and the ground began to freeze, I anticipated the first big snow with intense longing. My sister and I spent most of our weekends on ski slopes, and countless hours after school creating an intricate network of sled tracks out back, carefully observed by the haphazard snowmen that we’d create. Each winter, our local fire company flooded a small area in the community park, creating a tiny ice rink for the neighborhood kids to ice skate. We’d tuck our skates into the denim carriers our mother had sewn us for Christmas — personalized with our names — and she’d drive us to the little rink to skate circle after circle until our toes got cold! A bonfire cozily burned beside the frozen pond, where we’d warm our feet, drink hot cocoa, and toast marshmallows before heading home. Other than carefully venturing onto the ice for a shot while photographing an event a few years back, I can’t remember when I last skated. My long-discarded skis never saw this century, and now that I’m in the city, a wet winter means slushy sidewalks, dirty carpets, and a serious lack of parking. Snow, it seems, should be enjoyed in the countryside, away from traffic jams, slippery sidewalks, and mounds of salt burning my poor
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bella
grace
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WINTER 2017