When I was young, snow was magic. Narnia is magic and it is "always winter in Narnia," according to the famous seven book series by CS Lewis.
When you're young, snowy days mean no school, sleds, snowmen, hats, scarves, and hot chocolate by the fire.

After a nighttime snowstorm, I woke up from innocent dreams with "dream crusts" still surrounding my ever so tiny eyelashes. Now dream-crusts are just disgusting. With age, people tend to simplify names into mundane forms. The reality of the harsh grossness of what my family deemed in fairy language was made ever so real to me when my friends started to call them "eye boogers." As if boogers weren't aweful enough in our noses, they, well, you get the point.

So through a misty vision blurred by the preferred term, "dream-crusts," my eyes transported to my wild imagination visions of a fresh snow. Snow is magic in part because of its beauty. I see beauty in innocence. Perhaps that's why newborn babies are so beautiful to people. If we really stepped back and took note of the blood and thin new skin, we'd probably think twice before exclaiming, "Aw" in warm affection.

Snow has no morals, it cannot be innocent; yet it is pure. It covers our green imperfect grass, it hides the dirty trodden paths our past, it pus a clean white sheet over soiled bed cloths. When it snows, we can't tell that our garden hasn't been tended for five years; the family farming era has finished when my dad insisted on growing corn, tomatoes, and cucumbers in late summer. After a good snow, no one sees the patches of dead grass in the yard; obvious evidence of my mother's poor housekeeping skills she feels the need to hide from visitors on our 4th of July picnics. After a really good snow, no one can tell where the bushes start and end. Everything flows together blending God's creating into a smooth flowing masterpiece of unstained purity.

The morning everything becomes colorless with cold white blankets is a morning of ecstasy in a child's heart. Some kids would rush downstairs for hats and mittens to get out there and play immediately. Not me. I wasn't tentative to get cold or have a fun time but I knew the sooner I went out to play the sooner I'd spoil the beautiful blanket. Once somebody moves snowflakes under their feet they can never go back to the way they were. Just like people, every single one is unique. Only nature can bring us more snow even though each time it will be different, each snowfall

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