Beautiful day.

As yet another winter day shines on toward 60 degrees, I can't help thinking about how this one might go down as "The Year of the Lost Winter." I'm left thinking about the things I really miss. One thing I've always loved about living in this area were the winters.

I grew up just about an hour from here, in an area designated "north and west" of the city in weather reports. The temperature was about 10 degrees cooler there, and we got a few more inches of snow. We had lots of snow days (living next to a ski resort meant that snow days were ski days!) and became expert skiiers, snowman builders, snowfort architects, snowball fighters and of course champion sledders.

Before the roads were plowed, the absolute BEST part of the day, when the snow was tapering off and it was still gray and white and clean, we'd do a few runs down our hill with silver dishes that sometimes stuck, just to pack it all down, and then we'd bring out... the Flexible Flyers.

The hinges would be greased. The red runners would be freshly rubbed with candles. The handles would be tested. Usually, one of the kids would have brand new shiny sled from Christmas that creaked, but for the most part, we were all waxing down spots of rust and chipped paint.

With the course sufficiently packed down, we'd do a test run. And at that point, we'd start sizing each other up. Who'd take the crown this year? Who would outrun all the others, go the farthest (it was always the farthest, not the fastest) and go on undefeated? Like the year before that, when one of the kids' dads, unable to get out of the driveway for work and taking a day off, came out and raced with us. It was a legend we talk about to this day.

He got a running start, threw the sled in front of him, and in one slick movement, leaped on top, head first. We were all screaming. We'd never seen anything like that before. The poor kids who volunteered to race him were still trying desperately to edge past the starting line, feet first, to the point where gravity would take over. The contest for second place would obviously be a close call. And boring. We abandoned the second-place stragglers and ran as fast as our little legs would carry us to see how far Mr. So-and-so would go.

He was already taking the turn at the bottom of the hill by the time we started down after him. When we got to the bottom, we could see his distant form, still speeding toward the small hill we never even came CLOSE to. We all looked at each other, mouths open. I heard one of the kids say "holy SHIT." I'd never heard a kid say that before. It was a day of firsts.

Still running, we saw him zip up the hill and then disappear over it. We all yelled various arrangements of "Oh my GOD" and ran faster. Some of us got tired and collapsed in the snow. Running with ten pounds of snowsuit on is exhausting. By the time we caught up with him, he had already started walking back. "Hi kids!" He yelled. "How'd I do?"

How'd you do? How'd you DO? We looked at his tracks. He had EASILY gone past the part we'd packed. He'd gone up and over the hill beyond. He'd even started heading up the NEXT hill. And that's where we saw the tracks ended and the footprints started. How'd you DO? We couldn't even tell him. We all just looked at the tracks, where they came from, where they went to, looked at him. He was smiling. We couldn't tell him "how'd you do." We were still trying to process the whole ride.

That one ride changed our race forever. We'd changed our sledding position (head first!). We'd try out different run and jump techniques. We'd discovered that weight was the secret of speed, and so we piled on, three, sometimes four of us, trying to reach that zenith of sled-travel. Invariably, we'd lose one or two along the way. We'd even set up snow-pile jumps, to take advantage of our new-found speed.

We'd be able to get a good half-day in before the plows would come. And when they did, when we heard them in the distance, we would make a call to arms and get all the kids to make as many snowballs as our little hands could make. We'd hide in our snowforts, waiting, and when the plows started crawling down our street, chains clanking and metal-grinding on road, we'd all storm out and scream like banshees and attack the monster like it was a freaking holy war. The plows were, after all, the enemy, destroying our races, our jumps, our mobility. And we let them have it. Sometimes, I would look at the driver, feeling guilty for about two seconds, and he'd either be laughing, or of course red-faced yelling and shaking a fist. At least that's how I remember it. We didn't care. It wasn't about him. It was about the monster beneath him that destroyed our world.

Now, I get all excited when I hear about Nor'easters or Alberta Clippers or just plain old low-pressure systems that carry lots of moisture from Canada. I watch the weather like an old lady with nothing to do, except oh do I have stuff to do. I begin plotting early, dreaming of the pile of snow I will shovel, and later, jump into. Yes, I am a full-grown adult female, and I still feel the need to run and jump into large snowpiles. If I had a sled, you'd better believe I'd be challenging some kids to a race. And sometimes, I'll throw snowballs at the plows, but only if nobody sees me do it.