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Simply put, I love winter.

With as much passion as I dislike the heat and humidity of a Southern summer, I love the frost, cold and chill of this time of year. Most of all, I love snow. I can be easily mesmerized watching snow fall when we are fortunate to get some.

Perhaps the affection I have toward snow happens because it is so scarce in Gibsonville. We rarely see it, so it is a treat when it arrives.

Friends who live in other parts of the country have made grand offers to ship me the snow that they are sick of seeing. They mock me, believing me to be silly for becoming so excited when I see a trace or a few inches of snow in my yard. They laugh at my definition of cold because I choose to experience the temperatures at their fullest by not wearing a coat.

Those with a yard full of snow again and again don't understand that the chance of us seeing a snowfall deep enough to cover every blade of brown winter grass is rare.

A prediction of snow in the South is like the heralding of an unexpected holiday. I will hear that snow is supposed to be headed my way, and my heart will jump. Excitement is in the air as I watch the sky for those first flakes.

Many Southerners celebrate a forecast of snow by making the obligatory trip to the grocery store for bread and milk. It doesn't matter if only a trace of snow is predicted. You never know when that trace of snow might turn into a good six inches and you will be snowed in.

It's a tossup whether those of us in Gibsonville will actually see the snow predicted. We hope and plan, watch and wait. When it finally does snow, we camp out in front of our TVs, watching local newspeople tell us how bad it is out there. This makes us feel good for deciding to stay at home and have a snow day.

We feel deep disappointment when a weatherman predicts snow and it doesn't fall. Life does goes on, of course, but not without wondering what the day would have been like "if only ...."

I get my passion for snow from my father. He absolutely loved the cold weather and the snow. I have many fond memories of seeing him get excited about snowstorm predictions.

My father would watch the weather forecasters, but he also owned a weather radio and would listen for long periods, trying to get the most up-to-the-moment weather forecast. This was before computers were a household item.

My father would leave our Greensboro home and drive long distances to "find the snow," after hearing snow was beginning to fall a few hours away. It was magical to see him "bring the snow home," as it always seemed to start snowing right before he returned or directly afterward.

Once a snowstorm had begun, my father would part the curtains in our big picture window and sit in his recliner, watching the snow fall.

Later, he would put on the old Army boots he wore when stationed in Alaska. He would walk out to shovel the snow or clean off his car for work.

He occasionally walked us to the top of the hill in our neighborhood to watch us as we went sledding. It was cold, yes, but it was wonderful. I have passed many snow traditions to my kids as we built our own memories.

When they were very small, I bought them their first sled -- a blue metal disc sled that we tied to a jump rope. It snowed enough that time for us to pull them through the yard. In later years, as they grew, they pulled one another through the snow.

I taught them how to make and throw a snowball (and not to throw this same snowball at me).

I showed them how to make that snowball bigger to make a snowman, packing it carefully and rolling it evenly through the yard. I have demonstrated the art of making a snow fort in a shaded part of the yard, and of course, they are well-versed in snow angels. I have encouraged them to store snowballs in our freezer as my brother and I did as kids.

We always stick our tongues out to catch a few flakes and have also taken time to make snow cream. My kids appreciate stepping carefully through the yard to keep at least one part of it untouched by footprints so it can be enjoyed in its pristine state.

A few weeks ago, we received a somewhat unexpected snow. The weatherman had said the night before that we might see snow the next night at the end of the rain. He downplayed it, though, and really didn't expect anything to come of the chance.

I forgot about the chance of snow until my son was getting ready to go outside with the dog. He called me to see the snow falling fast and furious out our back door. My daughter and I joined him outside. We walked through the snow, snapping photos of each other, the dog and our yard.

Because of the late hour, no one had driven in the snow on our street. It was just us outside, walking around, enjoying the snow and the cold. Pure joy.

There is nothing like new-fallen snow and the cold that accompanies it.

The snow ended shortly thereafter, but not before leaving three inches or so on our lawn. Never mind that most of it melted by sundown the next day. I had been blessed with a small taste of snow.

And while I am still hoping for a big snow one day soon, I will be content with the wonderful cold chill of winter until the next white flakes descend on my yard.

You can be sure my heart will jump, my smile will be big and my kitchen well-stocked with milk and bread.

Linda Vestal is a wife, mother, daughter, sister and friend living in Gibsonville. Contact her with comments or story ideas at lindavestal@triad.rr.com.