The morning we found out it had snowed for the first time was the only one of the year when we jumped out of bed without any further requests. And the first in a long line of time that seemed like wasted time, the time spent at school when the snow was so close. Also, during the long recess (yes, we allowed ourselves one longer than 5 minutes), we would rush to measure the snow, the thickness of the ice, and the potential places where we could build bunkers. We would return to the classroom covered in snow and, since the only source of heat was the huge terracotta stove, we would huddle around it, frozen and flushed, piling wet gloves, scarves, and hats into the niche between it and the wall, hoping that they would at least blow off steam until the next break. And if they didn't, who cared?

I was just staring out the window, envying the kids from the other shift for playing while we were at school.

The snow was joy. The frost drew stories on our simple windows, fixed with small, rusty nails to the old wooden frames, gnawed by skunks in places. Stories that we interpreted wonderfully. We then blew on the frozen stars, melting them and giving them other meanings, creating new shapes.

The thick, fleece overalls (which were not available to everyone) were only durable for the first half hour. Who cared? We would go into the house from time to time to get some sweet supplies or other gloves and we would run out into the snow again, with our knitted pants underneath wet and full of snow and our boots still wet, hearing less and less the cries of our grandparents or our parents, who wanted to cut us off or stop us in the heat, at least for the price of a warm milk with cocoa. We would run, fall, laugh, with a runny nose, with the brim of our astronaut cap in the wind and with only one goal. Play!

The sleigh was full of children of all ages. With sleds, sacks or all sorts of improvisations, just to slide. Great! Without parents or grandparents to keep a close eye on us. Who thought about the dangers, in the winters of our childhood? Cars didn't pass by there. In fact, there were so few of them. I would run with the sled in my arms for a few meters, then throw myself on it, happy that I had reached the perfect speed! God, I couldn't see my daughters doing that! Just like I'm not too happy, even when they (also) think that icicles are so tasty! And, yes, I still remember their taste. And that of the lumps molded with dirty gloves.

The only condition that had to be respected when choosing boots or shoes (so hard to find) was… the sole! It was mandatory that it be very slippery and smooth. We walked down the street in a continuous slide. All of us. Looked at askance by those who had boots, we were the absolute masters of the sidewalks. Of course we laughed at our grandparents when they told us that we would wish, when we would no longer laugh out loud at a terrible fall on the ice, once, jagged soles. I remember my mother's happy face when she brought us our first red leather boots, "with socks up". The famous and coveted boots of our childhood, finally received, were first carefully inspected to assess their degree of slippage. They failed the test! But that did not diminish their importance in any way. They were…the good ones". Alongside the stars of the time, the "bears", the furry hats or muffs (which our grandmother made for us, out of soft fur).

In the small house in a large yard, among old walnut and linden trees laden with snow, the winters smelled divine. Of quince jam (which my grandmother thought it would be good to make, from the fruits that had rested long enough by the windows), of puffy pies and donuts filled with jam, of freshly boiled milk in the aluminum pot with a double "bottom" filled with water (blackened in places from the flame), of lies or whatever the two sisters wanted. The pantry was the sanctuary of smoked products hanging to dry. In my great-grandmother's room, in the shelter of the stove, were the pot of condensed milk and the one with sour borscht. In the cellar, the apples and pears (which were juicy only in January) and never spoiled or raisined (although untreated), the barrels of pickles and the jars with various magical recipes "for the winter", gave us the impression that we could withstand the end of the world. And another beginning.

In the evenings after sledding, we were read stories or we read, when we were already older. Sometimes, by candlelight or candlelight. Other times, under the duvet, with a flashlight in our hand (The Cherry Orchards, 5 volumes!), so that no one would know that we weren't sleeping. Or we listened to the Cenaclul Flacăra, next to the stove where the wood was crackling, singing in unison. If they finished their chores, my mother and grandmother would read, solve crosswords, knit or crochet next to us, and my father and grandfather (as long as he was) would do their work in the yard. My great-grandmother would doze off in her armchair, smiling and at peace with everything that was happening around her. Always with beads around her neck and perfectly arranged, I don't remember her as anything other than serene and carefree. Our parents and grandparents would take them each one by one. All we knew was that we were fine and warm. And that we would have new socks made of rough wool, knitted with 4 small and sharp needles, by the very gnarled and hardworking hands of our wonderful grandmother. Who did it all and knew it all! And who never complained that it was hard for her! She just grumbled, in a way that couldn't scare us for more than 10 seconds. Mom had gone to another level and was happy when she came into possession of a new kg (strange, but true!) of beautifully colored mohair. Beautiful things were also being prepared for us. If it wasn't Cenaclu evening, there was radio theater. Or Pheasant. Or games invented by mom, to put our imagination to work and learn to play with rhymes.

I can still hear the sounds of the village. The barking of dogs, the meowing, sometimes hysterical, of cats, the noise of chainsaws and firewood, hit hard by merciless axes, the piglets that screamed desperately in December (when I was hiding under the heavy blanket filled with wool, to stop hearing the voices of pain!). From time to time, someone would call out at a gate...an aunt, an uncle... . The roosters did not take into account the frost that cracked the stones... when it cracked in the daylight. Nor did the hens, who in our childhood filled their nests with eggs even in winter and announced each new feat with great pride.

We laughed a lot. The adults told us about their childhoods and we listened, completely fascinated, fully convinced that all previous childhoods had been more wonderful than the one we were just living. Just as our children listen now, with eyes just as big in wonder and delight! Who apparently have everything. Everything that we, the previous generations, didn't have. They also have what we, never dreamed we could have or that it could exist!

And, just like us of old, our children eagerly absorb the true stories, told at nightfall, and firmly conclude that...we had everything and ours were more beautiful. And the winters and childhood.