I'm a good New England girl in the sense that I associate holidays with snow, snow with holidays. And I am a good New England girl because I remember there being more snow when I was a little girl than there is now. I happen to think it is true that winters have gotten less snowier, that a White Christmas is a rare event, but regardless of the reality of my perception, to gripe about this is quintessentially New England. In high school, I was a cross-country skier, and we never had enough snow. Race after race was postponed due to bare ground (except for the races that were postponed because it snowed 11 inches the night before the race and they couldn't get the course groomed in time...).
When I was packing to come home this weekend, I looked at my winter boots and thought about bringing them. They're Timberlands lined with fluffy wool - soft and warm, sensible and rugged, and my kids are so impressed the first time they see them - and I don't get to wear them enough in NYC, but they're also really heavy to carry around if I'm not sure I'll need them. So I paused and decided that I didn't need them - there's never snow on the ground in November nowadays - and I left them behind in my closet.
My dad neglected to mention that it had snowed a little bit this past week. And what none of us anticipated was waking up Thursday to find thick flakes falling all morning and into the afternoon. The neighbor's grandkids were sledding down the little hill behind their house on plastic sleds. It felt like a real holiday! But I wished I'd brought my boots.