It is January...God's gift of mercy and chance for restitution after the decadence of December, (on a purely unspiritual level). I am sitting in the relative warmth of my front room, with the window at my back, showing me mostly green grass, striped with shadows thrown by a shameless sun, who apparently thinks that January has nothing whatsoever to do with chill and cold and dark retreat. A Southern sun. Being from the North, an intrinsic part of my nature rebels at this seemingly unnatural predeliction of the sun to radiate so brightly, so gloriously, in January, of all months. It seems proper to me, rather, for the sun to be shrouded in heavy clouds, (pregnant with fat snowflake babies) and secluded among the white and distant skies. It was good to be around that Northern sun for awhile. The sun rises there early, sparkling bright on the sugar white diamonds of snow covering the ground. Apparently it is a forgetful sun, as it seems to rise with the expectation of going strong for a full summer day. By noon, I think it has realized that it is outnumbered greatly by winter clouds, and sheepishly resigns itself to acting as a proper winter sun should-gleaming weakly, and retiring early. About 1 pm, the clouds nudge each other conspiratorily and wink at the sun, who is starting to yawn already from its earlier efforts at blazing across the sky. By 3, the sun's eyelids are already drooping, and it is sinking towards it's snowy bed. By 4, for all intents and purposes, it is sunset, and the buzzing, hyper stars are already starting to twinkle with excitement, impatient for the sun to succumb to its slumber so that they can take center stage. This took some getting used to, as I have grown accustomed to a few more hours of daylight, even in the grip of winter. It just served as an excuse to break out the puzzles and coffee earlier, though, and stretched the children's naps in the afternoon until almost suppertime. I did adjust well, especially as I was so thoroughly delighted with the amount of snow (in the sky, on the ground, all around) that any other "inconvenience" of winter was rendered completely trivial. On our journey north, we first saw snow as dirty banks piled along the roadsides, but the farther north we went, the more glorious it became. Heading into New England, the interstates have been carved out of sheer rock, so to either side of the road, great jagged cliffs rise up, with snow layered upon the rocky outcroppings. It started snowing in earnest as we entered New Hampshire, great, sticky gangs of snowflakes flurrying down in a mad rush to cover everything. It was enthralling. When we pulled into my parents dooryard, my mother (who is just cute anyway, but in a homemade knit hat with a green pom-pom on top looks almost munchkin like) had just finished shoveling a path through the snowdrift left by the plowtruck at the end of her driveway. The children were delighted to see the heavy, ponderous flakes covering their arms and outstretched hands as they were carried from the van into the house. I think Grace laughed outloud non-stop. It is just my personal opinion, that while unsullied fields of radiant white reflecting the sun are nice, and while tall banks of frosting-like snowbanks could make a person smile, and that watching swirling flakes of crystalline beauty fall onto your mittened hand, show their geometric perfection, and then melt magically is also a beautiful thing, that the true glory of snow is revealed best when it is adorning trees. Seeing pine trees in the winter without snow just seems uncomplete, like seeing a woman lovingly caress her husbands face, with a hand that wears no wedding ring. It is amazing the different caricatures trees will become under a disguising blanket of snow. Sometimes they look like tall, elegant ladies, with slender white fingers outstretched to display the finest, intricate, gauzy lace. Sometimes the trees look like giant, stout mountain men, covered with layers and layers of heavy coats and blankets, smiling down at you from beneath great white wooly caps, as they trudge slowly up the hillside under their warm burdens. I just think trees need snow like children need kisses. I have a lot more to write about our time in the snowy north, but for now, I must go feed (and kiss) my wild children.