When I worked construction, I took a work trip up the eastern coast of the United States. It was a driving trip from Florida to Maine. The trip was extremely fun and full of adventures.
I had never been to the northeast before and was particularly excited about seeing Maine, the home state of Stephen King. Who was my absolute favorite writer beginning when I was 13.
When I got to Vermont, I stopped by the town my mother used to live in before I was born with her first husband. The town was idyllic. The leaves were changing colors in all the trees. There was a beautiful church with a tall white steeple. It was like a Norman Rockwell painting.
I don’t think I even really believed towns looked like this town did. I could see the appeal. I wanted to move there.
I stopped at a quaint truck stop and bought myself a hot chocolate (I don’t like coffee). I stopped for a few minutes, sipping my hot chocolate. I wanted to breathe in the town for a bit before moving on. While I sat there, contemplating my mother’s life in this lovely town, it started to snow.
It was the first snow of the season. I had never seen it snow before. I stood there, full of wonder, my face upturned to the sky. The perfect delicate snowflakes gently settling on my face and in my hair. It was the most magical moment of my life.
And then I tried to scrape the snow up off the ground and start a snowball fight. But I was 18 and nobody wanted to have a snowball fight with me.