Not even two, she steps into her first winter day of discovery. Heavy and stiff with warm woolen armory, our little explorer stretches mittened hands out into the cold air of gently falling snow. Next, one then two brave little black boots slide forward into the sparkling powder. Her big brown eyes fill with childhood magic. Although my granddaughter may forget this moment, I will remember forever.

My daughter laughs as she watches her daughter play in a new world of frost and beauty. In my memory, I see my mother smile at me and my siblings in snowy play. I also hear my grandmother chuckle while watching my mother. And yes, on a snow-filled farm in Wray, Colorado, great grandmother Grace had a dozen children to watch with smiling eyes and a merry heart—all outfitted with mittened hands to collect and examine snowflakes. That joy echoes down through our generations—the mothers that have laughed at the winters without fear, whose lamps never dimmed, and whose hands knitted mittens and soaked them in tears on bended knees.

Bonnie Saul Wilks

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