When I was 7 years old, and fairly new to big snowstorms, my parents decided to be spontaneous, and take my brother and I sledding. I was hesitant to go having just been sick, but I couldn’t stay home alone.
30 minutes and 10 layers later, I was on top of a hill that my little eyes could only compare to one of the cliffs you see on the side of the highway. As a natural born scaredy-cat, I opted to stay at the top, and just watch everyone else go down.
“No, you have to come,” they said.
“It will be fun,” they said.
Before I knew it, I was zooming down a mountain, stuffed between my mom’s clunky snow boots. All was well, until we veered into a rock, and the littlest (me) went flying—face first into the snow.
I angrily lifted my furry-hooded head, and stared coldly (pun intended) at my parents in the sled. With rosy cheeks, and snow filled lashes, I said with a whine—“That wasn’t fun at all.”
To this day my family still gets a chuckle out of that one, but I still hold some mild resentment…towards them, not the snow.
Surprisingly, I still love the snow and at my 21 years of age, I still find time to frolic in it.
With the first snowfall of the season, I headed out to take some pictures, and enjoy the scenery.