The First Snow in Boulder
I didn't know that 'mild winters' existed. Here's the story of my first snow in almost a year.
The first snow in Boulder is the first snow that doesn’t break my heart.
And I mean heartbreak the way we meant it in high school, like if this hurt ever passes, we might not pass through it. Chicago snow feels like that every single time. Having spent most of my life within a train ride of downtown, I gave up on waiting for the winters to get easier. When the sky split open in early November (or heaven forbid earlier), I watched my first love leave all over again. Preparing for it didn’t help. Those lamps that mimic sunlight didn’t help. All the goodness I knew disappeared with that first snowfall, and I never felt fully sure I’d see another good thing again.
Boulder snow doesn’t feel that way. Not tonight, anyway. It’s falling steadily—the first snowfall I’ve seen in almost a year. I half expected I’d forget the important stuff, like how the birthmark on my knuckles makes the perfect landing pad to see the shape of a snowflake just before it melts, or how to spot black ice. It’s not ice tonight. Just snow, racing itself down the sky.
I’ve spent the whole year running from winter. In January, I left Chicago for LA, refusing to migrate north until the spring, then back to Chicago for the summer. My address changes every few months, so I forward my mail to my parents’ house and devote what little free time I have to packing or strategizing for my next move. I’d prefer a desk over working from kitchen tables in unfamiliar apartments, but I certainly don’t have the expendable income of most snowbirds, so I do what I have to do. The benefit of being a writer is I can work from anywhere, and there’s plenty of anywhere that never freezes. Maybe someday I’ll be rich and retired and have a winter home somewhere warmer; until then, I’ve cobbled together a life that fits a 27 year old with an unpredictable income.
“I half expected I’d forget the important stuff, like how the birthmark on my knuckles makes the perfect landing pad to see the shape of a snowflake just before it melts, or how to spot black ice. It’s not ice tonight. Just snow, racing itself down the sky.”
And then I moved to Boulder in September. You’d think I’d announced a move to the arctic circle. You know it snows there, right? Yes, I know. Call it facing a fear, call it taking a chance, or call it what it really is: a desperate attempt to trade my years of big city living for something smaller, quieter, calmer. I wouldn’t recognize calm if it accumulated in inches around my feet, but my therapist mentioned in passing that Boulder was nice, and that was enough of a recommendation to sign a short term lease and go.
I was forty five minutes away from the finish line of our 15 hour drive west when I wondered aloud how big Boulder was. For all the packing and strategizing, you’d think I would’ve done more research on my new temporary home. Boulder, a quick Google search yields, was just over 100,000 people, the smallest city I’ve lived in by far. 3% the size of Chicago. 2.5% of Los Angeles. I ran the numbers twice, three times to be sure it wasn’t a fluke. I drove into town and into a new life that was smaller, quieter, and calmer than we’d planned.
September was a dream, as was October, with the aspens all turning gold. And now, lying on the living room floor and writing while my love slices potatoes in the kitchen, he mentions, “it’s pretty outside.” I don’t turn to look until a little later, when he says, “it’s even prettier now.” Over my shoulder, I see the wash of white against the glass of the back door and wait for my stomach to revolt. It doesn’t. The first snowfall of the year, but none of the symptoms. No dread, no panic, no wondering if I’d be better off dead.
I don’t leave the apartment all day, not because of the snow, but because it’s one of those workdays that teams up with your Adderall to keep you glued to your desk (kitchen table). By the time I wrap up writing, I’ve missed the sun altogether, but I still tug on a heavy sweatshirt, tie my boots, and step out into the uninterrupted snow. It lands on my lips, my hair, the birthmark on my knuckles. I snap photos of the trees near our building and try to think of a way to describe all the untouched snow without using the word blanket. In Chicago, even a light snow is a trojan horse for a war of a winter; here in Boulder, there is very little commotion or concern of what’s to come. The snow falls vertically, not sideways, and the few faces I see on the sidewalk aren’t wind chapped or worried. The snow is worth noticing, but not stressing over. A bluejay stopping at a bird feeder. A painting you like but won’t remember. Beautiful and silent while life goes on as planned. Dogs get walked. Cars park in their usual spots. It’ll be fifty degrees tomorrow, and it will all melt before it gets gray and mushy. Heaven is on her best behavior.
“I snap photos of the bushes near our building and try to think of a way to describe all the untouched snow without using the word blanket. In Chicago, even a light snow is a trojan horse for a war of a winter; here in Boulder, there is very little commotion or concern of what’s to come.”
I knock the snow loose from the teeth of my boots before coming back inside, where my love, feeling festive, has heated up some cider and pumpkin bread (both pre-made from Trader Joe’s; we are human, after all). We sip and snack and I mention that the apartment complex has a hot tub, and we’re just young enough to think it’s a good idea. Sweatshirts off, swimsuits on, sweatshirts back on for the short walk outside. We only have white bath towels, but they’ll work.
The hot tub, as you might imagine, is empty, and our numb red toes pinch in pain when they hit the hot water before we settle into a perfectly balanced scale of cold shoulders and warm bubbly jets at our backs. The snow never even considers stopping, covering our towels with a second layer of white. Maybe we should’ve stashed them under a chaise lounge, but there’s only so much strategizing two people can do. Later, we’ll wrap our tender red bodies in those frozen towels and screech as we sprint back inside. For now, we laugh. We mix our breath with chlorinated steam. We wonder aloud if we might find ourselves staying in Boulder a little longer than planned. Maybe not forever, but even through the winter wouldn’t be so bad.
When we bolt back to our apartment, we’re pushing five or six inches of snowfall. By the weekend, the sun has done its work. The snow, any evidence of it, is gone. Like us, it was careful not to overstay its welcome.