That's Mom's estimate, at least. I suspect it was more like 8 or 9 inches, if for no other reason than there was still a nice blanket of the white stuff several days later:
I expected snow men and forts and a bounty of snowballs to have sprouted by the time I arrived late for Christmas Eve dinner Saturday afternoon. But the tykes were battling sniffles and coughs and were far more interested in what was under the tree than what was covering the ground outside.
I satisfied myself with a stroll or two through the snow, my footsteps crunching in the thin crusty layer at the top of the powder. I thought of my friend Amy, who responded to a snowstorm that hammered Minneapolis a winter or two ago by buying some cross-country skis. The homestead looked like a siren call to skiers - flat, open and covered with snow!
Somewhere, Dad had to be smiling about this snow storm, bringing desperately needed moisture to a parched region. He never complained about snow, unless it threatened livestock, because he knew what it would mean for the next growing season.
I remember many white Christmases as a child, but they've become less common in recent years. Then again, as Mom put it, "This winter is more like what we had years ago. It's like winter is winter again."
It's easy to feel that way when your Christmas is white.
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