I grew up where it was common, but Sunday was the first time my children saw snow.
Of course, they had heard of it and had seen pictures of it in books, but this was the first time they held their mouths open to the sky, willing crystalline flakes to fall onto their tongues.
They walked with their father, throwing snowballs and laughing through the woods.
They built a small snowman.
Eventually, dressed in cotton clothes testifying to my children's southern upbringing, they got too cold and wet.
Rooster came into the house sobbing because of it and reminded me of my Tennessean college roommate on the day she got her first taste of an Illinois winter.
I was on my way down to the laundry room, waiting at our dorm elevators with a basket of clothes.
The doors slid open and there, crumpled in a heap, was my college roommate Liz, crying hysterically.
I set the laundry down and crouched down beside her, worried.
Because I had lived in Illinois since the eighth grade, I was used to the bitterly cold weather.
"What? What is it, Liz? What's wrong?"
"I'm...s-s-s-so... c-c-c-COLD!" she sobbed.
I even went on a date to see The Flamingo Kid with Matt Dillon on a night when the wind chill registered eighty degrees below zero.
I vividly remember the way the wind steadily blew a thin layer of talcum snow across the dark and deserted theater parking lot.
It gave me the eerie sensation of being surrounded by ghosts.
When I found Liz crying in the elevator, I did what any kind, understanding roommate would do.
I burst out laughing.
[And then I helped her get up and to our room to get warm.]
When The Rooster and The Mayor came inside, they both had perfectly round, rosy button cheeks.
Their faces were literally shining with the cold.
I pulled their wet things off and quickly re-dressed them.
When they were dry, we made hot chocolate.
While they sipped it at the dining room table, they told me all about the snow.
They told me everything.