We had a snow day last week. We woke to a grey morning with just a few flutters of snowflakes. All day it kept on falling; our town was covered with a thick white blanket.
For those of us with no journeys to make it was a welcome white out. It blotted out the darkness of the world, covering up its flaws. Let’s make a snowman, I said. No, said Mr A, let’s not spoil the perfect covering. Ignoring him, I broke the surface and started to build. It didn’t take too long for him to join in and show me exactly how it should be done.
The snow stayed just long enough to be enjoyed, then went away again. Today we had another snow fall. This granny made snow angels then walked, through the falling snow, into the world of Narnia.
I was a winter baby, born in a particularly harsh year in the days before central heating. I love my January celebration, brightening up an otherwise hard time of year, all the more so when it snows. And now I’m waiting, with increasing anticipation, to welcome a new grandchild, expected any day. With each day that passes without announcement, I wonder whether this baby will come as a birthday gift. And more, in the sensible way of grannying, I’m hoping for snow free roads when the baby’s on its way.