Image by Jennifer Pyron

On Saturday morning we woke to a winter wonderland the likes of which my children have never seen. They are true Southern babies, having both been born in Montgomery, Ala., where snow is a real rarity. To them, a few inches of ice and a dusting of snow is the best thing since Harry Potter.

My son's friend walked up the hill to our house mid-morning, and the two boys set off on an adventure. I soon followed with Emily and Amelia, my niece from Boston who was visiting with her father for the weekend. With a laundry basket as a makeshift sled, we trekked through the neighborhood looking for the boys. The laundry basket was a failure. I'm thankful no one with a flip camera was around to catch me trying to push and drag the little girls in the basket. Not a pretty sight.

My husband saved the day. He braved the roads to drive to my mother's house less than a mile away where he retrieved two 30-year-old American Flyer sleds that once belonged to me and my brother. Let me tell you, they don't build 'em like that anymore. With one bang on the ground, years of rust fell away. I don't know what gleamed brighter, my son's eyes or the blades of the sled.

Armed only with my Blackberry phone, I tried to capture the mix of fear and excitement on his face as he sped down Bryan Street for the first time. He jumped up victorious when he reached the bottom, fists pumping the air. Minutes later, my husband zoomed past with Emily clinging to him from behind. Her laughs and shrieks could be heard all the way down the hill. I clapped and hollered, enjoying the moment vicariously through them.

It took me back to the snow days of my youth. Every winter we had at least five or six really good snow days in Little Rock. I was a Heights kid, which meant a fairly long leash in a neighborhood full of familiar families and friends. I vividly remember sledding down the hill on North Pierce with a huge group of kids – the long hike back up worth every second of the thrilling ride down.

Later, when we were older, my friends and I joined the throngs of teenagers brave enough to sled down Scenic at night. If you were truly gutsy, you'd bear left and head all the way down the cul-de-sac. Chickens like me could veer right up a small hill that would slow you down and end the ride. I can still feel the rush of the wind and the thrill of the darkness 25 years later.

After a wonderful dinner at Browning's (another snow day tradition in my family) and a brief round of night sledding through the yards on our street (sorry neighbors!), we were asleep before our heads hit the pillows. I hope my children dreamed of wind on their faces, chilled toes and hot chocolate. I know I did.