Snowfall creates fun -- for 50 percent of the family

Buzz puts the finishing touches on Buzz Junior -- bottle cap buttons and carrot eyes. (T-G Photo by Mary Reeves) [Order this photo]

There are times I wish I could walk around with a video camera attached to my head, to capture those rare moments ...

I woke Buzz up Sunday morning and told him he needed to go outside.

"Why?" he muttered. (Not a morning person, that one).

"Look out the window."

Maybe I don't really need a video camera -- that slow grin of shock and wonder is engraved on my memory forever. At the ripe old age of 10, Buzz finally got to see a real snowfall.

We had a few snows when he was a toddler, but nothing more than an inch or two. The one really big snow Tennessee saw happened in the two years we were living in lower Alabama, where snow is a myth, right up there with liberal Democrats, progressive education and Gator Man. In the almost five years we've been back, it's been a dusting here and a half-inch there -- not even enough to make a snowball.

We made up for it Sunday. Snowballs, snow angels, snowmen. We packed 10 winters into one day, finishing up with hot chocolate and homemade cookies. In this 21st century lifestyle of dual income parents and overscheduled kids, you don't get many Currier & Ives, Norman Rockwell moments like this one, and we took advantage of it.

At least, Buzz and I did. Ben was too cool to get cold and Dad was to old to get cool. They both huddled inside watching bad movies on the Sci-Fi Channel and playing on the computer.

They don't know what they missed -- the sharp bite of the air, the sting of snow on bare skin, the heavenly crunch as you pack the first snowball and you realize this is great snowball-snowman snow ... They missed seeing the chickadees hopping across the top of it, going after the bread crumbs we threw out and leaving their broomstick-prints behind them.

They also missed the runny noses, frozen fingers and chafed cheeks, but hey, you wanna play, you gotta pay.

I can remember great winters when I was Buzz's age. We lived in a subdivision that had two hills: a bunny slope for the beginning sledders and the killer slope for the rest of us. At the bottom of the killer slope was a massive fir and the trick was to make the turn or disappear into the cave of its branches.

I think we had more snows back then. We always had at least two pairs of gloves, two hats, and a basketful of scarves so we could keep playing in the snow while one set dried out by the old space heater in the den to dry out. The smell of scorched wool brings back more winter memories than any Christmas carol.

We had sleds -- all kinds of sleds. Radio Flyer, plastic garbage can lids, toboggans. The wildest ride I ever took was on a big piece of cardboard that had been waxed on one side. There was no way to guide it -- the fir tree and I became bosom buddies that year -- but that was the fun of it.

Mr. Luckado, who lived at the top of the hill, would hose down half of the road, giving us a good ice base for the next day's run, and we would spend hours and hours making the 10-minute climb for the 10-second flight.

Buzz and I didn't get to sled Sunday -- even if the city wasn't diligent about salting the streets, it wasn't quite the right type of snow for a good run. We don't even have a sled. Because of the recent mild winters, we only had one set of gloves, hat and scarf each, so we resorted to using tube socks for mittens.

But as we knelt in the snow, hearing it squeak and creak as we rolled up the base for our snowman, I felt as if I were 10, too, and enjoying nature's brightest, most playful gift with my buddy, Buzz. Let the others grow old and stodgy indoors -- we were the great explorers.

We didn't let them have any hot chocolate either -- that was only for us adventurous souls.

­-- Mary Reeves is a staff writer for the Times-Gazette. She can be reached by e-mail at mreeves@t-g.com.