A snowy hill is a snowy hill no matter where it is.

Teeny icicles, not yet given enough time to get humongous, came into being in thin air this week.

Out come the mittens, and the ritual of dressing that is reserved for this time of year.

I am trying hard not to hate it.

A big part of learning to like this season is by following in the crunchy ice encrusted footsteps of my kids.  Both got gear for enjoying snow this year.  Snowpants, warm boots and copious "pairs" of mittens (most of them still paired up, yeah!) all go on without complaint because they know that it all means one thing, fun in the snow is coming their way.  Even when we were waiting for a bus a little too long (for my liking) in what is in my mind a desolate place (a business park), they still managed to find the terrain magical and exciting to explore. As my knees knocked together down below, they frolicked high above on the ridge of a crusty snow bank.  I have to say, that despite the initial discomfort and bulkiness that I experience wearing winter clothing, nothing beats, taking it all off in a warm house after we've been outside.  I feel almost athletic coming back to my warmed up limbs that have been exerting themselves by walking in cold air.   Every walk to anywhere is taking a little longer these days because there are so many air pockets and icy sheets of snow to crunch.  Summer seems almost boring (and certainly too obvious) in comparison.