On my first morning back in the Wildwoods, I opened my eyes when I heard the tapping of little pieces of ice ricocheting off the outside of the windows. I got out of bed and went to the window to find the front yard and the street covered in a blanket of fresh white, falling snow. With this, I knew I was back in New Jersey.
I went downstairs to the front door and sat and watched the snow continue to fall, as my brother scraped the ice off the cars, while the dog roamed around the driveway, leaving her paw printed trail behind her in the untouched areas. It was the first time I saw snow this year, and I was excited.
Snow always puts me in the Christmas spirit, reminding me of when I was a kid, when I’d spend a half hour bundling into my snowsuit to go out and play with the rest of the kids in the neighborhood, making igloos and snowmen for hours, while my parents would have to force me to stop playing and come into the house when meal time rolled around.
When the snow stopped falling and the streets were plowed, I decided to drive the three blocks from my house to the beach to see what it looked like—true, I’ve seen the beach covered in snow before, but there’s still something cool about it. Or maybe, I just missed the beach.
It was particularly cold this morning, with the sun tucked away behind the gray clouds and the wind stinging my face as I got out of the car. But I didn’t mind. I pulled my jacket tighter and trekked out to make it over the dunes.
When I reached the top of the dunes and looked out onto the landscape before me, I was disappointed to find the beach not covered in snow. Maybe I was too early? Maybe I didn’t give the snow a solid chance to land? Either way, I saw little patches of flurries scattered across the sand, and that was good enough for me. Even better yet, I saw people out in the chilly weather walking by the ocean, while their dogs ran around playing ahead of them, chasing the paths of the waves breaking along the shore. The ocean was gray, and the waves subtle—almost nonexistent—almost frozen as they folded and crashed.
I was thankful to feel the heat in my house kicking when I walked in the front door and started unbundling. My brother asked me where I had gone, and I told him the beach.
“I couldn’t help it,” I said. “I love the snow. It isn’t Christmas without snow. Don’t you just love the holidays when it snows?”
“Hate to break it to ya, Nat,” he said, “but I don’t think it normally snows on Christmas Day. It’ll probably be melted by then. I can probably count on one hand how many times it actually snowed on Christmas Day.”
Indeed, he was right. I knew the snow would probably be gone by Christmas, but it didn’t hurt to dream, right? With that, I began grabbing my boots and gloves and scarf in my arms to take them into the other room, when I stopped in my tracks when I heard the weatherman talking on the TV.
“It’s a pretty safe assumption to say that the snow probably won’t last, but you can expect to see a lot more of it in the cold days to come, maybe even including Christmas Day.”
I found this ironic and hysterical considering the quick conversation I had just had with my brother. And with the closing of the weather report, I got to leave the room with a smirking grin and the satisfaction that I just may be right. Maybe it just might snow on Christmas.