The snowstorm of 2026 arrived last week with the name, Fern … like it was a sweet little old lady stopping by with a casserole. Then it kicked in the door, rearranged the furniture, and demanded to be called Snowmageddon. Fern sounds delicate, leafy, polite. Snowmageddon sounds like a monster movie. What we got was both: a blizzard wearing a lace collar and steel-toed boots. The snow fell fast and thick, piling up like an unchecked to-do list. It swallowed cars, sidewalks, and driveways within minutes, like a memory covering everything at once. The world went quiet in that special way only snow can manage—hushed and heavy, as if someone had wrapped the neighborhood in a giant white comforter and said, “Sit by the fireplace, have a mug of cocoa, and take a nap.” I’ll be the first to admit: I’m not a sled-riding person anymore, even though I still have my antique Speedway sled with its rope-steering wooden body and cold steel runners. These days, I admire winter from the window, coffee in hand, like a tourist who forgot their boots. But growing up? That was a completely different story. Winter wasn’t something to endure; it was something to strap onto and race. We had a snowmobile that roared through the frozen fields and the strip mine behind our house. We were loud and wild and unstoppable. At some point, we also had the bright idea to rip the roof off a Volkswagen Bug and pull it behind the snowmobile—no helmet, no rules, no sense. You held on and hoped for the best. Ice skating was always on the agenda too—after school, before homework, under gray skies that smelled like snow. We skated until our toes went numb and our cheeks burned, skating backwards like the Olympic gold medalist Dorothy Hamil and feeling completely invincible. Oh, and if you see my husband, ask him if he'll ever be the last to join crack the whip. Fern/Snowmageddon didn’t send me flying downhill or lacing up my skates, but it did send me back—back to that sharp, happy cold and the reckless joy of winter. Snowstorms are time machines. You just have to look out the window and let them take you there. Blessings, Linda “Some snowstorms fall like blankets. This one hit like a memory.” ~~ LM