Today is my mother’s birthday, and we’re having our first real snowfall in two years. Since she never goes outside anymore, she doesn’t really care. I, however, think it’s a fine, fine birthday present, and I hereby accept it on her behalf.

My birthday is more than a month away. In mid-March, we rarely get the gift of snow. More often, it’s a sloppy mix of sleet and freezing rain, with maybe a touch of snow designed to taunt me. In 2007, the infamous wintry mix included enough snow to plow before it turned to all rain. For reasons unknown, the snowplow that barreled over the hill knocked over my mailbox, post and all. To complicate matters, as I tried to back out of my garage to go to the post office, my left front tire got stuck in a rut in the driveway. Because of the slick surface, it took nearly an hour to free my car. When I made my way to the post office to pick up my mail, I was informed that it was on the truck which, of course, would not be able to deliver it since there was now no box. Try back on Monday, they said. Sigh.

But one birthday—my seventh—stands out in my mind. At that time, we lived in a Philadelphia suburb. Our rented house, situated at an angle on the corner, was so new that we had only one spindly sapling in our yard. My second-floor bedroom was at the front right corner of the house, affording me a view of all the houses down the street. I loved to stay up late, reading The Bobbsey Twins or The Happy Hollisters. Periodically, I checked the other houses, noting as their lights went out, determined to be the last one awake. There was one house I could never outlast, though. When I finally gave up and turned out my own light, they still had a bulb burning. It took years before I figured out that they probably left their front light on all night.

One morning in March, I awoke to a snow-covered landscape that I barely noticed, because it was my seventh birthday. At that time, my nearly-nine-year-old sister and I attended Caley Road School, approximately three-quarters of a mile away. It being the 1960s, she and I walked to school on our own, along a street where nearly no one lived because new homes were being constructed, and no one thought twice about it.

Family tradition held that presents were to be opened before breakfast, even on school days. There was always a doll. This year, it was a baby doll with blinking eyes and little bits of molded golden-brown hair atop her plastic baby head. Her neck allowed her head to move back and forth, her arms and legs could be posed, and even her waist twisted. I was enchanted, although I don’t recall putting up a fuss about leaving my new baby to go to school.

Several inches of snow blanketed the sidewalks by the time Mom tucked us into our snowsuits and sent us off to school. She admitted later that she should have listened to the radio before we left. As it was, we trudged through the pristine snow, along the sidewalks and past the half-built homes, toward our school. Looking back, I recall that we saw no one during our trek—no other children, no vehicles, no signs of life. But we were children, and it didn’t occur to us to find this curious.

Finally, we reached the school. No lights were on. We tugged on the door; it was locked. With nothing more than an oh, well, we made our way back home.

By the time we arrived, Mom had figured out that school was closed. She berated herself for failing to confirm this before we left, but I didn’t care. It was my birthday, and I could stay home and play with my new doll. What could possibly be wrong with that?

Of course, there was little my mother could have done. She could hardly bundle up my younger sister and haul her out in the snow to retrieve us. Even if she’d learned to drive—which she didn’t do until several years later—my father had the only car. I don’t recall the roads having been plowed, but maybe they had been, so maybe Dad was already at work. All I remember was the joy of the snow which gifted me an unexpected day off for my birthday.

Maybe that’s why I love days like this, with enough snow to look beautiful. Granted, working at home means I don’t get a day off unless the power goes out, in which case I’ll be more concerned about whether my phone is charged and how long I’ll have to wait until the house becomes so cold that the pipes are at risk of bursting. But one of the wonderful things about my home office is that just like my bedroom on George Drive, it’s at the front right corner of the house, affording me a view of my neighborhood, albeit one partially obscured by snow-covered trees. At the feeders I’ve hung in front of the house and on the other side, birds cluster, chirping with delight to find food during the storm.

Of course, as an adult, I have responsibilities now. My neighbor came with his snowblower earlier, but a plow has since come through. If I don’t go out soon to clear the plow crud (my technical term) from the end of the driveway, it’s likely to freeze into impassable mounds. When I come back in, I’ll need to buckle down and work since, unlike many businesses, I do not close due to snow.

Still, I can’t contain the thrill of looking out and seeing snow-covered branches and shrubs and rooftops. The climate has changed, and these views of what was once classic New England winter are now few and far between. Such moments must be cherished, because we don’t know when—or if—they will come again.

But if I’m lucky, perhaps we’ll have one more good snowstorm before winter peters out. Maybe it’ll be on my birthday. I can only hope.