"Well, you don't see that very often."

This from the wife, as we pulled back into town after the movie. Pointing out the snow falling under the highway light.

Large flakes, falling slowly, gently, down.

No, you're right. We don't see that very often. Usually they're getting blown sideways, in a hurry to get somewhere.

As we stepped out, youngest son commented he didn't think he'd ever seen it snow like this.

"Oh, sure you have. At least a handful of times."

This in two decades of living here.

It being such a pleasant night, I grabbed the snowshovel (Did I ever mention we managed to not put our snowshovels away at all last summer?) and started scooping off the centimeter or so of fresh fluff that had fallen in the past few hours.

And was pleasantly surprised when youngest son grabbed the other shovel, a plastic toy they have had since they were little tots, and started helping.

And even more pleasantly surprised when he, with no prompting or prodding, started on the south walk, which I had left untouched.

So, nine-thirty at night, there we were. Working together on 21 squares of concrete buried under 12-14" of white. In a magical, twinkly world of white. No breeze at all.

It was fun.