Expat Yankees

I just came inside from the ice storm that currently inhibits Little Rock. Most sane southerners have been safely inside, staying warm. But my husband, son, daughter and I all finished dinner, donned our jackets and dashed outside to enjoy the wintry weather.

It was beautiful. It was dark. And cold. Our chimney scented the air with fragrant smoke and all cheeks were rosy, all eyes shining. We laughed, danced and giggled through the almost-there snow flakes, trying carefully not to slip on the more prominent ice.

Since I’m out of winter practice, I forgot to put on a hat. My hair began to freeze and this was my signal to escape inside to the fire. As I sat by the dancing flames, I listened to my husband, Abby and Henry outside, scraping together snow balls. (Since we do live in the south, this required a shovel to pry the “snow” up from the deck.)

I love that after all these years, Brian and I still love winter. We love the contrast of the ice and snow against the warm lull of a crackling fire. I love the red cheeks flaming against the winter skin. I love that my children love the winter. I love watching them celebrate the novelty of their origins.

They just came inside. Abby said to hubby, “It’s so nice to be home.”

My sentiments exactly.