Six glass doors fifteen feet from the dining table line the back wall of our home in San Antonio. Once the dark of night arrives, the uninterrupted glass panels reflect into the room like a black mirror. As we ate dinner, having returned from the grocery store only an hour before in a bitter cold rain, we heard shouts of neighborhood children and wondered why they were playing outside after dark. We saw only black from the glass reflection.

Thirty-minutes later, when Jim moved to the kitchen and looked out a different window, I heard a loud “Whaaaaaaat?”

Unexpected snow had come to San Antonio!

The snowflakes were not just flurries, lightly falling from the sky simply to melt once striking the ground — a sight seen some winters here in South Texas, albeit usually later in the year — these were large, fluffy, powdery snowflakes that had completely covered the ground with white and were accumulating depth on every horizontal surface.

No wonder the kids were wailing. This is not a usual sight in San Antonio.

I remember one winter when we forgot to turn the sprinkler system off and the temperature dropped below freezing. Alexandra and Jimmy looked out the window and screamed with delight when they noticed “icicles” on the plants — not a single one more than an inch in size. I shared the story with my sister who lives in Colorado and she promptly emailed a picture of an icicle at least two feet across that stretched from the roof to the ground, along with the caption, “THIS is an icicle!”

So, while our snowfall this past Thursday night may not impress readers from snowy places, for San Antonians snow is an unexpected surprise.

The following morning the snow remained, and I asked Jim to take a walk with me. “No, it’s too cold,” he replied. I called my friend, Whitney, who lives across the street and begged her to come play with me. “I haven’t had my coffee yet,” she retorted.

I walked alone (after first stopping over to throw snowballs at Whitney in her pajamas).

The snow-covered neighborhood was lovely and lent a different view of everything familiar.

I realized then, I needed to get to the ranch.

Although we had made an earlier decision not to drive on the likely icy roads, I cut my walk short, and within minutes, Jim and I were in the car, racing to Comfort. According to the forecast, we had less than an hour before the temperature was expected to rise above freezing, and the sun was already burning down brightly.

The drive was full of anticipation and continual changes in our expectations. We knew snow fell in Comfort over the night, but we did not know how deep it had accumulated. About 15 minutes out of town, the snow lay thicker, casting a beautiful winter white on all, as if all was one.

Confidently, I told Jim I was going to make snow angels, making the assumption the snow accumulation would increase as we continued north. However, 30 minutes further up the road, hardly a dusting of snow lay on the ground. We laughed at ourselves and our faulty assumptions, and now, we expected there might be no snow at all by the time we reached Comfort. It seemed the snow had fallen in narrow bands, so widely variable snowfall amounts across the final 15 minutes of our drive teased us until the moment we arrived at the gate.

Happily, we saw snow at the Lost Madrone Ranch for the first time ever.

Solid snow-cover, hiding in the shadows of the trees, told us we were too late to witness the peak display of the snow. Instead, the hilltops were mottled with bumpy humps of snow mounds amid clumps of grasses exposed by the rapidly warming temperature and the sun’s glistening glare.

Still, the scene was enchanting. The white cast was delicate and graceful — a contradiction to the known harsh and rugged landscape.

I quickly appreciated that while I have seen many winter wonderlands where snowfall turns every inch in sight white, I have never seen snowfall adorn the wonders of the ranch.

I would not be making snow angels, but with the exuberance of a child, I was eager to see more.

The rapid sound of dripping signaled a race was on. I rushed against a complete melt.

For the first time, I saw Longhorns in the snow!

I wondered if they felt the dainty snowflakes fall against their heavy coats?

Surely an inch of snow was an imperceptible cushion against hooves that dissipated the impact of 1800 lbs striking the ground?

Our other pets — four chickens and a rooster — fared fine through the weather.

I expect the arugula, peeking from beneath a snow blanket, will survive too.

Melting snow on the rosemary and Texas sage formed little snowballs, like stored ammunition.

Watch out Whitney!

And, an arsenal of snowballs rested on the cedar trees.

In the next month, when the expected cedar explosion of pollen fills the sky like smoke and half the population of Central Texas are battling burning eyes and a runny nose, I hope I can summon the beauty of emerging cones of amber against a melting snow to somewhat excuse the misery.

A cluster of agaves found in the woods appear like they are in battle, twisting and turning their leaves to shed the unexpected snow.

Prickly pear cactus, with wicked sharp spears that shout beware, seem less intimidating covered in snow —

until the snow starts to thaw,

exposing the spines of glochids

and the stark extremes between an inch of fluffy snow and 1/4 inch of formidable prickles.

Meanwhile, the thornless prickly pear wear smooth little crowns of snow along their tops.

Last spring, I posted a story, Saturday Sedum Watch at the Lost Madrone Ranch: April 1, about planting sedums among the arrangement of succulents shown below.

I wonder if the deepened colors of these succulents are a warning the freeze was too deep for survival? Or, do I expect they will come through because they are still standing upright?

And, for those readers who followed the series of posts on sedums, believe it or not, sedums are growing right now at the ranch! I am sure I never expected to photograph sedums in snow!

Of all the photographs taken on this snowy visit to the ranch, I most enjoyed taking pictures of the leaves of an Agave salmiana.

On August 21 and September 6, I posted my personal favorite blog story — Cry Heart, But Never Break — in two parts. The story followed the bloom cycle of a giant agave, and I re-lived the journey of my father’s battle with cancer and my mother’s march with dementia. Tears and celebration were part of the story, like all seasons of life. And, like seasons we don’t expect in life, I never, never expected to photograph snow accumulation on an agave.

It mattered not the amount of the drifts, the surprise was the presence of snow at all.

Seeing snow on the agave provided a new perspective,

a new way to study the patterns,

a new way to discover the beauty,

a new way to notice the details,

a new way to see the situation,

a new way to look up close,

and a new way to celebrate the creation.

Looking up close at snow along the margins of razor-toothed spines,

reminded me of the snow along the edges of sand seen during a recent trip.

Talk about the unexpected! Can you guess where Jim and I traveled to see this wonder in the picture above?

I’ll share more pictures of this marvel in my next posting. Until then, here is a hint. It’s a place where the snow is expected but the sand is not.

For all the readers in San Antonio, I hope you enjoyed the unexpected snow.

Thanks for reading Take Comfort.