By Nathaniel Harrington
When Mom said, “Nate! Snow might be coming. It could start tonight.”
I remembered, with every ounce of conviction any elementary schooler has about their own ideologies, I could control the weather. I had (have) multiple tricks for wrangling snow: spoon under the pillow, ice in the toilet, giving myself a brain freeze, etc. These worked to scant success, but my desire for snow persisted despite my failures to conjure it at will, so I kept up my superstitions. The want for snow, however, wasn’t born from a desire to shirk school, to cushion falls onto the gravel lot where my siblings and I played, or to create an excuse to stay inside and watch cartoons. Snow—at least for me—captured my fascination for a different reason: I thought it was pretty—
flakes dance from grey heavens,
peppering Earth with dunes
(or patches, or melting on arrival)
of white, temporary sand,
which, when observed from
the microscope taken out of
the Tiny Scientists kit, a
unique pointed web of ice
apparated from the white
fleck picked to be studied
—and interesting. Which is why my heartbreak, caused when waking up to grayish-green (leaning more towards gray) grass and the unblanketed world, was not because I would soon be in Mrs. Knox’s class, but because the beauty I’d hoped for didn’t materialize.
When snow did fall, I had a recipe for the day: wake up, stay in my pajamas (either adorned with Batman or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles), enjoy a mug of cocoa—pretending I was sipping the same strong brew as my father, the smell of which was the only one to circumvent the cold—and finally, watch flakes fall fervently from my covered front porch. There is something about the pureness, the equality of snow. How it covers the visible world with even sheets of white softness, and it turns the world silent—
snowstorms, for me, were never loud.
even when wind accompanied
storms, the silence of
snow transferred through my ears into
my brain, which was (is) often
cacophonous. It simmers, listening for
the soft collisions of snow, which one
hears when listening for nothing
—which seemed to calm my more erratic side. A side that was the beginning of several political, lawyerly, and other career defining moments, beginnings that preceded—of course—snack time. That erraticism—of course—led to this eclectic collection of anecdotes.
With my home’s climate growing more temperate, snow never piled up the same. No more blankets over gravel lots, nor snow figuring out its balance of tree branches, nor a medium-sized Nate, (maybe in some old sweats at this point) sitting happy for hours on a different porch at a different home, watching a storm bring rounds of flakes. Instead, it usually came at night, piling up in corners, either forgotten or too scared of the sun to leave the shadows. The snow was patchy, clinging to the coldest spots in an ever-warmer world. These patches grew in infrequency, until even snow found the world a little too tumultuous to grace with its interminable beauty, leaving my southeastern Pennsylvania winters barren. The lack of snow persisted for a couple years, continuing into college decision season. Which is why every college I applied to had some chance for snow, but my shortlist had places where snow would be guaranteed: Denver, Poughkeepsie, and Syracuse. Looking back—
often memories are grainy and frayed with time,
as nostalgia makes memories diluted, softer,
digestible, perfect. In my memories, the lines
are blurred between fact and self-truth and selected
details informing the scene, but these crafted lies
make my chest and head fuzzy and warm all the same.
—snow was important to my life, but overemphasized during my search for a college. Or maybe it wasn’t, instead acting as an easy out to the onerous, life-altering decision. Because when May 1st rolled around and required a decision to be made, the mentality of “snow is pretty” seemed to falter under the immense pressure of the moment.
From the moment I made it, my decision to attend Syracuse was a mystery, even to me. Sitting down at my eight-year-old desktop computer, wearing a navy hat and orange shirt and figuring out what a tuition deposit is, I was freestyling my parents’ questions on why I chose the Salt City. But I went through with my decision on a gut feeling: something about me being at Syracuse University fit. This feeling was placed under intense interrogation throughout my first few months of school. I was happy, had growing success, and found great people in college. But this success, even in the context of finding these special people and opportunities that I wouldn’t have at other colleges, didn’t quell the lingering introspection about why I chose Syracuse. Then the snow started to fall.
Now, donning plaid pajamas and a loose t-shirt, holding a cup of real coffee, the memories started to settle with the snow: my first memory watching snow while sitting out on the porch, times I listened for silence, and my growing disappointment in the shrinking amount and frequency of snow. And, for a little bit, watching the continually pretty, silent, nostalgic snow, my answer to the question, “why Syracuse?” is temporarily solved: I really like snow.
Nate Harrington (he/him) ‘25 is a senior studying creative writing & magazine, news and digital journalism. Nate is a staff writer for The Newshouse, reporting on general assignment with a focus on political issues, and is a lead project coordinator for the upcoming Newhouse reporting project about the 200th year anniversary of the Erie Canal. He enjoys recreational hikes and volleyball.
