The temperature dropped alarmingly overnight. There was a hard frost on the ground in the morning, and my fingers were clumsy with cold as I hurried to dress. "Snow on Skyline Drive," John said when he returned from walking the dog. "Let's take Dixie to see it." And me, I added fervently, I want to see real snow here in coastal California. We bundled into the car and drove into the hills. Before we even got to Skyline there were tiny flakes drifting through the air. We chattered about it in amazement. Snow, imagine that! Not two weeks ago I complained that it never snowed here.
The tall cedars and pines were dusted with it, and we saw tiny drifts along the roadside as we wound our way along the ridge towards Santa Cruz. It was the teensiest snowfall, really, only two inches at most, but we were delighted. It's so rare here. We found a hill still covered with a respectable amount of white stuff and let Dixie out to romp in it. We did a bit of romping ourselves. John threw a snowball at me and missed. Whiff! I smacked him with one.
The flakes were thick and heavy when we headed back downhill. I wanted to pull over and watch it for a while but there's no room on Highway 84 which twists through dark forest in narrow hairpin curves. I mourned as the snow grew smaller and sparser as we descended until finally it declined into a freezing rain. By the time we got back to our house, only 10 miles from the ridge, it was sunny again. But we had snow at Christmas time. I have the wet socks to prove it.
