Winter has arrived, but the temperate climate of California doesn't match my east coast recollections. Some people might have winter blues, but for a moment I transport myself back to being seven years old in the mountains. Ah, childhood memories.
Winters resembled fairyland worlds, where the week's snowfall would pile high in drifts against the garage. The eye-squinting bright sun would warm the daylight air and melt the snow's upper layer.
The morrow promised the best of it, for the night's frost would have crusted the slushy snow into a slick skating surface. Thus, while we were waiting at the school bus stop in our great coats, caps and mittens, we could run across the street to the sapling forest.
Like sparkling diamonds littered across the surface, the crust reflected the sunlight. The smooth shell supported our weight and we could grab a leafless sapling and sling-shot our selves around it skidding on the icy surface, seizing the next tree and repeating the action.
The bite of the crisp winter air, rosy cheeks, giggles and playful delight made the November day a thing of beauty.