I love snow. Snow brings me back to a simpler time. I don't know what it is. Liz, she hates the snow. Gia does too. It's bitter and cold and wet and yucky. Me? Snow brings me joy. Not even happiness. Pure joy.
When I was a kid, I loved the snow. It always meant something good. Whether it be staying warm inside, missing school, or going outside and playing (or even shoveling, I love shoveling snow), snow always meant something fun. My dad always hated it, because it meant he had to drive to work in really crappy conditions. My grandmother hated it because it made her arthritis flare up. My grandfather was indifferent, I suppose because he was born in the Philippines and immigrated to America in the 1970s, he never grew up with snow and still found it fascinating. Me? Usually, a winter snow in Philadelphia meant waking up early and listening to the KYW NewsRadio for our school's Emergency Closing Number. I don't know if other places have this system, but your school was assigned a number, and they would read your school number if your school was closed or had a delay. I remember it vividly; our school's number was 193. Now, we just check La Salle's website (or you'll get 50 IMs, depending on if you leave your computer on or not), which takes some of the suspense out of the game.
I don't know why, but the first snow makes me happy.