After two days of rain and temperatures that soared to 63°, we are left with a few mounds of snow.

That’s it. It’s muddy, it’s raining, and it definitely is not going to be a white Christmas. It will get colder by Christmas day, but no snow.

As depressing as that might be, it is not comparable to some of the terrible weather conditions many of you have had to deal with; ice storms, power outages, just plain horrendous weather. We had a conversation about that on this blog’s Facebook page yesterday. My heart goes out to all of you and I pray that power is restored and the damage, if any, is minimal. Stay safe.

Speaking of snow, I have fond memories of one of our first Christmases here in the East. After having lived in San Diego for eight years (me) and off and on his whole life (Don), we made the big move to the Eastern part of our country many years ago. We rented a little cottage, even smaller than this one.

On Christmas Eve, the weather report predicted a blizzard for Christmas Day. My West Coast born and bred husband was excited, to say the least. We had everything we needed in the house, the presents were bought, the tree was decorated, the four of us (Don, me, Winston and Scout) were safely nestled inside our cottage. Our neighbors called us on Christmas Eve morning. They were headed down to Princeton, NJ for Christmas Day but they had decided they should leave early to dodge the storm. They were taking care of our other neighbors’ dogs. Would we mind taking over those duties for a couple of days? Absolutely not, we said.

It was a huge blizzard. White-outs. Snow swirling everywhere. Many, many inches on the ground.

After eight years in San Diego, this Midwestern girl was thrilled. Don was, too. We had to shovel a path outside the door and take the dogs out on leashes, so we could see them and keep them safe. When it came time to venture next door to feed and let out our neighbors’ dogs, we slogged through snow drifts that seemed a mile high, falling down, laughing, pushing against the wind that threatened to keep us from our destination.

We felt like kids again.

I remember that day every year at this time. It was magical. The wonder of it all still stays with me. I think we lose a lot of that wonder as we grow older. I know that in my case, after years of big snowfalls in Michigan, then in Philadelphia and Boston, I got sick of the whole thing and couldn’t wait to move to San Diego. Familiarity breeds contempt. I’d had enough. And though I loved San Diego, after eight years there, I missed the seasonal changes that are part of living in this climate. I missed the wonder that can come from watching the leaves turn vivid colors, seeing the green buds of Spring transform the landscape and watching snow blanket the horizon as far as the eye can see.

Of course, I complain about all of the above. Leaves need to be raked. Spring brings rain and mud. Summer’s humidity can be oppressive. Winter’s snow needs to be shoveled.

I’m human.

But, if I take a moment to remember that particular Christmas, I’m a kid again. And that’s a good thing.

Happy Monday.