My Oregon hometown has very mild winters. On our rare snowy days, the white stuff fell in sullen clumps. I’d seen pictures of six-pointed snowflakes, but I assumed that they existed at a microscopic level.

During my first winter in Rochester, the first several snowstorms brought a heavier version of the snow I remembered from childhood. One day, my fiancé (who’s now my husband) told me that he’d seen perfect six-pointed snowflakes falling that morning. I thought he was teasing me.

A few days later, I was outside when the conditions were just right. Delicate lacy snowflakes drifted down onto my gloves, like a picture from a storybook. I was stunned: snowflakes are real!

Now, real snowflakes are my favorite part of winter. They often stay distinct after they pile up, building fairy-tale cities on outdoor railings. I was eager to walk outside in yesterday’s heavy snow, just in case. There weren’t any real snowflakes yet, but I know they’re on the way!