Month Eight. #Lineholder. #YEG.

I wake up late this morning in an enormous bed, surrounded by fluffy pillows and blankets. Pale light streams in through a two-story, sixteen foot window. From my little bedroom in the loft, I can see a glittering world of snow and ice, but inside it feels pretty darn cozy.

Welcome to Edmonton, Alberta.

There's something about waking up to snow. As a kid growing up in Wisconsin, snow was just about the best thing ever. Starting in October or November, we would watch the weather report before bed, praying for the sky to dump a load of fluffy precipitation during the night. And often we would wake up and find that our neighborhood had been transformed into a winter wonderland. If we were really lucky, school would be cancelled and we would be entitled to an entire day of running in and out, exchanging damp mittens for fresh ones (my mom kept a rotation of dry winter wear warming on the radiator), grabbing hot chocolates and nursing snowball fight wounds.

Around Christmas, snow became something even more magical. The afternoon of Christmas Eve, we would often venture out into the silent, snow-encased world to deliver fresh-baked cookies and treats to neighbors and friends. I would pull a little sled holding our gifts, gingerly trying to walk in my mom's footprints as to not disturb the freshly fallen snow around me.

Now that I live in Seattle, I don't get to experience this very often. Snow is rare, and often slushy and quickly gone. Work doesn't usually cancel, and if it does, I'm probably stuck at an outstation and not at home sipping tipsy cocoa or hot toddies.

But today, I'm not in Seattle, or Wisconsin. I'm somewhere new: Edmonton, Alberta. And it's cold. And there is a blanket of snow. And I'm happy, wrapped in a robe with a mug of coffee, watching the weather channel and hoping for more snowflakes to fall.

Happy winter, everyone!


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