Whose Woods these are i think i know

 His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow. (Frost)

Ah yes Mr Frost, your imagery has stayed with me a lifetime since first reading your poem.

Something about the snow that brings out your inner child.

As pre-teens we would participate in Brooklyn's unique winter Olympic sport of Skitching ...the art of gathering in a pack and waiting for the next Car or Bus to pass and then latch hold of the rear bumper for a death-defying ride through the snowy streets of Bayridge. 75th street and Ridge Blvd was a great place to gather and ride the slalom that was a 3 block downhill. Like Franz Klammer at Innsbruck we would slip, slide and navigate Colonial Road .... occasionally, or quite frequently; the driver of the vehicle would slam on the breaks and get out of the car and chase us off......imagine the panic of trying to drive a 72 Pontiac station wagon on the ice and Brooklyn hills and slopes....not sure if your breaks will work or you will collide with a bus or truck...AND then 4 or 5 ten-year olds grab hold of your car and try to hitch a ride for a few blocks of fun. I never understood the anger of the drivers back then, but i get it now.

And then the motherload.... eventually a Savino Oil truck would turn onto your thoroughfare and the excitement level amongst the pack would ratchet up a few notches. You could literally ride an Oil truck for 20 blocks in the right conditions. The Oil trucks hide a high bumper that was easy to grasp (sometimes as many as 8 or 9 kids could ride the same bumper) and the drivers couldn't really see (or care) who was riding along. The fact that you would be instantly crushed, paralyzed or perhaps killed if you hit a dry patch and were to slide under one of these massive wheels; was ignored. The thrills associated with a lengthy ride outweighed everything else....until your friends fell or dropped off and you found yourself in the 80's with a whole new pack of riders...and you voluntarily relinquished the ride.....a Champion....the day was a success.  

Years later the excitement of the streets was replaced by the downright giddy atmosphere of the Saloon and Pubs on a snowy night. That trail of Alabama slammers in the virgin snow that stretched from the doors of the Cove to all 4 possible directions. (an orange murder scene, as patrons would take a roadie and then stumble or spill a few precious drops) The refusal to leave the bar at last call and then the packs of revelers walking down the middle of 3rd or 5th avenue at 3:00 am.......the frigid walk home....praying for an oil truck. Yes there is something magical when a big city is silenced by a blanket of snow....your heart beats a little faster as you gaze at that sheet of white paper that was a concrete jungle the day before.....as the great Philosophers Calvin & Hobbes said...."It's a Magical world out there, let's go exploring"

        He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.