I have only ever known snow as a friend. When I moved from Billings, Montana, to Crescent City at 11 years old it had not had a chance to wrong me like it had wronged my parents.
I remember watching my dad snowblowing a channel to the front door steps, snow shooting from behind the blower like an anti-locomotive. It looked like the most fun. My dad probably remembers it differently.
When my mother’s SAAB slid through the intersection and the force from the car that hit us knocked the cowboy boots from my toddler feet, it seemed like an adventure. For my mom, it was a trip she wouldn’t take again.
I used to launch myself from our second-story porch into drifts of my friend, arms outstretched not just because the thickness my snowsuit prevented me from leaving them at my sides. There were ski lessons, snowmen, igloos, endless snowballs and even snow ice cream which consisted of fresh snow and condensed milk. We were the best of friends.
So it was with remembered wonder that I opened the door of my Gasquet home this week to see my old friend standing there. I hope he can stay for a couple days.
Reach Bryant Anderson at email@example.com