Snow Love:

Why Winter Still Brings Me Joy

Jan 28, 2026

I love snow. Even now—at my age—I still love it.

Usually, when people get closer to retirement, they want to go somewhere warm. Florida, Arizona… or even where I am now, in the Carolinas. But not me. I find myself thinking about moving back up North.

I wasn’t born in a state known for snow, but my formative years were filled with it—by the way, I’m a Military Brat. As I write this, I realize that most of the places I’ve lived have had a good amount of snow.

With the possibility of snow coming this weekend, I thought it would be fun to explore why I love it so much. Maybe it’s the memories. Maybe it’s another excuse to be outdoors—without being hot. Even just seeing snow fills me with joy.

Chionophile

It turns out I may be a chionophile—someone who loves snow—because I have a certain kind of perspective. To love snow is to love a force that fundamentally changes the world’s pace, sound, and appearance.

That feels deeply true for me. I love and value the stillness a deep snowfall brings. When it snows, the world literally gets quieter—snow acts as a natural sound absorber.

I also love the contrast snow creates. I don’t think I could truly appreciate the warmth of a fireplace, a wool blanket, or a hot mug of cocoa without the biting cold and white drifts outside the window. Snow lovers tend to be masters of hygge—the Danish concept of coziness and contentment.

Snow is also one of the few weather events that retains its magic into adulthood. I’ve held onto a sense of playfulness—from the thrill of a “snow day” to running outside to make a snow angel. Honestly, I even love shoveling snow.

Finding joy in shoveling snow means I tend to find joy in inconvenience. It’s less about the chore and more about the variety—doing something outside of routine. That disruption, for me, is joyful.

Growing Up in Snow States

I grew up in Ohio, Missouri, Connecticut, Germany, and Colorado (among others). I went to graduate school in University Park, Pennsylvania, and spent most of my working life in Northern Virginia. Every one of these places gets snow—some more than others.

Ohio (60–65 inches)
The Reliable Heavyweight. Influenced by Lake Effect snow from Lake Erie. It’s frequent, wet, and can pile up quickly.

Pennsylvania (45–50 inches)
The Valley Trap. Nestled in “Happy Valley,” snow tends to settle in and stay—a mix of lake-effect leftovers and Appalachian mountain storms.

Colorado (35–40 inches)
The Sunny Paradox. High altitude brings dry, fluffy powder. It can dump a foot, but the intense mountain sun often melts it the next day.

Connecticut (35–40 inches)
The Classic Nor’easter. Heavy, dramatic storms—the New England postcard snow. Beautiful, but heavy to shovel.

Virginia (20–24 inches)
The Suburban Disruptor. It’s all or nothing. Either a dusting that melts by noon or a full-blown “Snowmageddon.”

Missouri (15–20 inches)
The Moody Visitor. Snow is inconsistent—often arriving as messy wintry mixes of ice, sleet, and occasional deep drifts.

Germany (10–15 inches)
The Fleeting Guest. Winters are mostly grey and damp. When snow does arrive, it’s light and short-lived, often turning into Schneematsch (slush).

We lived in Ohio briefly, and as AI puts it: snow there isn’t just weather—it’s a lifestyle. Thanks to Lake Erie, especially on the East Side snowbelt, heavy bands roll in frequently. The snow is dense and wet, but Ohio handles it well. Plows are out instantly, and life rarely stops—even when everything is buried in white.

I also spent a good amount of time in Missouri. There, snow is more of a gamble. It’s where cold Arctic air meets warm Gulf moisture. You might get a beautiful six-inch blanket—or a glazed layer of ice followed by wind-driven drifts. It’s less about accumulation and more about the drama.

My Favorite Snow Experiences

One of my favorite snow stories is my first ski lesson. While we were living in Germany, my father had a conference in Switzerland. We took a train there—a story in itself—and planned to stay just a few days.

My parents loved surprises. They often took us places without telling us where we were going, letting us guess along the way. Switzerland was a mystery—we didn’t know enough about it to even guess.

I remember walking toward our mystery surprise – snow was everywhere. The sidewalk had a narrow shoveled path, and the snowbanks were so high I could not see over them to the street.

As we got closer, I saw people skiing—and I was thrilled. This was where I had my first ski lesson. Getting fitted for a snowsuit and ski boots (which reminded me of bowling shoes) was an entirely new experience.

Yes, my first ski lesson was in the Swiss Alps. Saying that out loud still feels magical.

We skied in Pischa, a hidden gem in the Davos Klosters region—perfect for those who want winter sports without the crowds. After that, we often skied in Berchtesgaden.

On another trip, we took a bus to Salzburg, Austria, from Berschtesgarden. American soldiers and their families frequently traveled from the U.S. Army Recreation Area in Berchtesgaden to nearby Austria. These trips were a common form of R&R in Europe at the time.

This was the late ’70s and early ’80s—long before digital cameras were common. I don’t have many photos, so I rely on memory. I remember our bus driving through a world covered entirely in snow. The roads weren’t shoveled. Snow weighed down the trees, arching over the road.

It was my definition of a winter wonderland. I’ll try to find a photo someday that matches what I remember.