Into the white
As I type this column (Monday morning) over a Brooklyn Bridge bagel, the window to my left affords a rare view: thick snow flurries!

Having grown up on the East Coast, I was once accustomed to major snowstorms every winter—we’re talking feet of snow. It was fantastic for the youngsters. School closings would be announced over the radio like Lotto numbers, then the lucky kids would explode into what felt like some new, untouched world. The awe-inspiring silence of covered earth—marked only by soft crunching beneath our feet, heavy breathing and dampened shouts. There was something about the way a good snowfall could slow everything to an almost timeless pace.

Whether one owned a wooden American Flyer sled with steering (rich kid) or used a wax toboggan or trash bag, we would all hit the steep hills with the joyousness and abandon of wild animals unleashed. I particularly remember the fun of attaching 15-20 kids back to back on trash bags for a long human chain of laughs and wipeouts over ice-slicked hills. Yes, we frolicked until our little bodies went numb, and then we huddled inside with our hot chocolate. To this day, whenever I catch a glimpse of The Price Is Right (or Bob Barker in his Orange Age period), I think of missing school.

During THE TEEN YEARS, I began to realize snow could be a big hassle: road closings and traffic gridlock, every morning having to scrape ice off the windshield and, in the afternoon, my wet hair freezing into shingles after basketball practice.

Having lived in Chico for six years now, I actually miss snow (in moderation). I find myself this morning with a nostalgic sense of appreciation over the beauty and wonder of it all (cue Charlie Brown music: “Christmas Time Is Here"). Although the snow doesn’t appear to be sticking—the flurry outside is turning thinner as I type—at least all of us working downtown this morning got a little wonder sprinkled on our day. There’s certainly something glorious about unusual weather and the way it keeps us in touch with nature.

There, it stopped.

Was I getting all mushy? My bad. Next week I’ll try to get back to mainstream political smack—like should we hang that dang traitor, Johnnie Walker, till he’s deader ‘n hell. Yee haw.

Weekly props
1. All Tomorrow’s Parties (UCLA)

2. DaVinci Quartet (2/12)

3. Czech new-wave cinema

4. Battle Royale (Banned in America)

5. Condolences to the Tomaselli family