I am grateful for a snowy day. My husband grew up on Long Island and I am from New Hampshire. While I’ve lived all over the country and we have been in the South since 2001, there is a feeling about snow that reaches deep into our souls.I set up two chairs and an ottoman into a moshpit by the large picture window for the dogs to keep an eye on the world outside. It’s also a perfect place to sit and check emails while enjoying a rare, very rare snowy start to a new day. The sight of a gray morning light brightening the snow triggers memories of the many days waking to snow, going to school, snow boots scrunching on the dry fluff, ski boots rigid with stored energy and mittens crusted with ice crystals. There were also days sitting high on my batshit crazy Appaloosa ducking the low branches he preferred walking under, hoping to dislodge the big parasite on his back. It was the low hanging pine branches full of fluffy white snow that were the worse, the snow fell down my neck and in my ears. All the snow memories come and go. The last time I stood atop Gunstock Mountain on rented skis. I looked down an ice and rock ski trail that is what skiing in New Hampshire has always meant and realizing that there was no way I was going down that death run. A careful shushing crawl down with tips together in a wedge, promising the angels that I’d learn cross-country skiing if I only could get down without breaking any of my uninsured bones. Then without missing a beat, Mnemosyne slides into a loud screaming, squealing terror-filled ride down a steep hill at the Country Club on a toboggan with my sisters, we clung to each other and the rope that ran dow the side and finished with raw throats. The memories of snow, so sweeter for their rarity here in the South.