It is snowing. Tiny, light flakes, millions of them, falling straight down. There is no sound, no color, to interrupt the pure white silence. Only the snow is moving, without even a breeze to interrupt its perfect descent. We are playing hooky.

Arriving on Friday night, after a long absence, we were greeted by a freak blizzard, unexpected, just as we approached Yasgur’s farm on 17B. Suddenly, the road turned from black to white and visibility dropped to zero. Large, dry flakes hurled themselves at us like asteroids in a Star Wars movie. The car ahead stopped by the side of the road, seemingly as nonplussed as we were.

I stopped behind them, wondering aloud what to do next. My husband implored me to continue. This, he insisted, was the worst place to be as another car was sure to come behind us, and might not be able to stop as safely as we had. I moved out, around the parked car, onto the road. It was intense and absolute, this snow. There was no seeing through it or around it. No treads to follow; even the embankment was obscured. But stopping held its own peril, and we persisted. After five miles, the snow stopped as suddenly as it had begun. We plodded on, spinning out only once, and made it home in time for dinner.

It is Monday, and we are still here, encouraged to stay put by our earlier experience. Oh, we could have made it back on Sunday night, before the new storm, but what a feeling to throw up your hands and let nature rule! I feel an enormous weight lifted. Fireplace glowing, a full larder and four new tires on the Jeep, to boot. We relish this house arrest.

In the city it is almost never so. The bedrock has accumulated so much heat over the years, that even the heaviest snowstorm melts away thin hours now. Life goes on, through slush and snow, without relief. There are no snow days for city kids anymore.

When I was a city kid, we climbed mountains of snow piled up by the plows onto Amsterdam Avenue. We climbed them in our woolen jackets and rubber boots, never warm enough, but undaunted, my brother and I. Our flexible flyers competed for speed records on Morningside Drive and Riverside Park. We made up the missed school days by sweltering in our classrooms until almost July.

My children have had only limited experience with snow. They are not versed in its variety. Snow is snow, to them. Inexpert skiers, packed powder holds the same appeal as man-made stuff. It’s white and on the ground, just ski, already. When we tell them this is perfect snowman snow, they shake their heads, and return to Nintendo.

What isn’t snowman snow, they wonder? But my husband and I engage in snowball practice, aiming at the road signs and telephone poles, honing lost skills.

Within a few days, the city streets will be indistinguishable from any other season. Litter will blow freely in the gutter; snow will be only a memory. Here, the river glows in reflected moonlight; it will be a month or more before the thaw disrupts its pristine cover. The streets and roadways will be plowed, but winter’s chaste palette will persist around them.

The snow covers imperfections ably. It bathes all it touches in a kind of cosmetic glow. It is willing to forgive the mole hills in the front yard while the missing Frisbee hides under its mantle. A forgotten soaker hose can’t worry me, sight unseen. We want to photograph it, to preserve its beauty. Will we look this good under white hair some day?

After snowing all day, it suddenly stops. From a pure, white and faintly gray landscape, there emerges one of blue-cast snow against black bark and frosted evergreen. Every surface is coated. Lights begin to emerge in the growing darkness. What was white is now a ghostly blue. I watch this brief glimpse of color in rapt attention, knowing, come what may, night will fall.