Whether it comes in November, or December, or January, the first snowfall in New York City is always striking for the urgency to get out there and attempt to fully capitalize upon something at once so inevitable and rare before it disappears. Quick then: Mittens! Where the heck did I store the mittens? Under the boogie board? They weren’t with the snow boots – I looked. I’m sorry your toes are smashed in there. Okay then, we’ll order size 12’s, but that’s not helping us right now, is it? Hurry, it’s turning into slush, we’re going to be sledding – we’re going to be waterboarding through slush – do you hear me? - if you don’t get moving and quit whining about your bloody boots! No, you cannot bring your blankie!

Or. Um. We could just stay inside and read a book. No, really, that’s what they do up in Maine! Because listen: there are many other ways to enjoy a snow storm besides launching yourself spread-eagled into a drift or getting nailed in the face with icy, arcing chunks.

Quiet. Can you hear it? The sounds of scraping shovels through your windows, and snow plows. Such is the wonder of snow as it was interpreted (in 1947) by Alvin Tresselt’s and Roger Duvoisin’s White Snow, Bright Snow where postmen, policemen (and even some rabbits) spring dutifully into action. There’s poetry here between the accumulation - “softly, gently in the secret night” - and also the disappearance, winter yielding to spring, with its crocuses and inevitable robins. This may seem old-fashioned in its ambitions and perceptions of small town life, still it’s no less timeless for being predictable.

Then there’s snow as an object of optimism too: in Uri Shulevitz’s Snow, where an incurably confident little boy keeps hearing No – from haughty old ladies and the like. The illustrations in this book - of city landscapes and fanciful creatures apparently hatched from a child’s imagination - make this more beautiful than Crockett Johnson’s classic, but in some ways this is like The Carrot Seed delivering from the sky. Everything else is discouragement,“but snowflakes don’t listen to radio. Snowflakes don’t watch television. All snowflakes know is snow, snow and snow.”

And in Cynthia Rylant’s recollection – titled, also, Snow – which captures the ephemeral magic of a snowstorm, especially from behind the windows of a schoolhouse (or work) when - whatever our age, or disappointments - the world seems determined to change. Here is a picture of something worth running into andout of - for games and hot chocolate - and the girl in the story is depicted enjoying these deliveries with her grandmother, a not insignificant bonus:

“And the snow,


while it is here,

reminds us of this:

that nothing lasts forever


except memories.

“And while the snow

is here,

this brief moment,


let us take a walk


and see how beautiful

the world is….”

Okay then, yes, you can bring your blankie, and those sneakers should work fine. For now. Hats please. We’re going for a walk to the bookstore.

PLEASE NOTE: All of these books flit in and out of availability at your local Barnes & Noble, but they are generally well stocked at Books of Wonder (on West 17^th Street) and Bank Street Bookstore (on 112^th), both of which remain heroically open in even the most hostile of climates.