Every winter or late fall, when I peek out my window and see the first snows blanketing North Idaho, I call my mom to announce: “It’s snowing, Pee-wee!”

If she sees the snow first, she calls or texts me the Pee-wee line. We’ve done this for years, a throwback to the absolute joy Pee-wee and his friends experience as it snows on the playhouse just in time for Christmas.

Before I pull out my tree and ornaments, I make sure “Pee-wee’s Playhouse Christmas Special” is on the TV ready to help me ring in the season with the first scene of handsome young men in uniform singing about Christmas in the playhouse, followed by some snazzy dancing and upbeat introductions by Pee-wee Herman himself. My holiday season cannot officially begin without Pee-wee. It was a tradition to watch the Christmas special when I lived with my good friend Sara. We still laugh about me not returning the DVD to Video Theater in time so she actually had late charges for a Pee-wee movie on her account when we were in our early 20s.

The sad news of Paul Reubens’ passing July 30 at the young age of 70 hit me in a way I haven’t felt since the world lost Robin Williams. Pee-wee will never have another adventure. We’ll never have another Christmas special. He won’t make any more random appearances on talk shows or cameos in movies, no more Funny or Die visits to the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally, no more songs with Dolly Parton, no more “Saturday Night Live” sketches raging it at the bars with Andy Samberg and picking on Anderson Cooper (“Oh Anderson, here’s a headline!”).

Reubens created a character who was my whole world when I was a little kid. I wore out the Pee-wee VHS tapes from constantly rewinding and watching them again. My inner child shrieked with excitement when Reubens brought Pee-wee back to the big screen for “Pee-wee’s Big Holiday” in 2016, which could never compare with the near-perfect “Pee-wee’s Big Adventure,” but was a solid return for my favorite snarky dude in his classic gray suit, white shoes and little red bowtie.

We Elder Millennials cling to our childhoods and the pop culture we cherished as kids because those shows, cartoons and characters were our entire worlds. We had no cell phones or laptops to distract us from our Saturday morning cartoons and “Pee-wee’s Playhouse.” We were immersed in these universes of imagination and, frankly, part of me still resides there.

Losing Reubens means we have to admit that nothing lasts forever, that we all must grow up some day, and I am just not ready to accept it.

Pee-wee taught us to celebrate imagination, to have fun with secret words, to learn lessons about kindness and generosity and to sing and dance and be joyful, whether life gives us too much fruitcake or someone steals our bike. That is a sentiment I will never let go of. That childlike joy Pee-wee exuded lives on in my daily life.

For those who only remember Reubens for the 1991 scandal when he was arrested for exposing himself in an adult theater, please know, this upset and scarred scores of young Pee-wee fans like myself. I actually had a Pee-wee doll that my brother and I tore apart and threw on top of our carport.

However, I found myself defending Pee-wee as the years went on. Reubens taught me an important lesson that would serve some people well nowadays — separate the art from the artist. Pee-wee Herman, while a brat at times, is no porno house pervert. He seems to have an aversion to anything of that nature, except for when he finds himself torn between two babes in “Big Top Pee-wee.” Reubens, on the other hand, is the one who got in trouble and broke our hearts. His character did not.

That embarrassing poor life choice aside, Reubens spent his life making us laugh. He had other memorable characters throughout his career, including the Spleen from “Mystery Men,” a creepy vampire in the “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” movie, epic appearances in “Blow,” “Cheech and Chong’s Next Movie” and more, but it all began with Pee-wee, which, actually, began as a comedy club character and got its big break as a comedy show for adults on HBO and also starred the amazingly talented and gone-too-soon Phil Hartman as Capt. Carl. So yeah, I guess Pee-wee was a bit pervie before he cleaned up his act for daytime TV, but to innocent young fans, Pee-wee was a lovable, hyper, funny, imaginative guy who lived in a playhouse with talking furniture and animal friends and for some reason a magic genie who lived in a box. Meka leka hi meka hiney ho!

Some Pee-wee-isms in my life: I cannot dance to the song “Tequila” without doing the iconic Pee-wee dance; I have found myself saying, “I know you are but what am I?” many, many times; I love fruit salad, but no, I would never marry it; chocolate milk, and other items containing chocolate, are always, “Mmm, chocolatey!;” I won’t believe the Alamo doesn’t have a basement until I see it for myself; and so many more, especially the joy of announcing it’s snowing in my Pee-wee Herman voice.

A piece of childhood is gone with Reubens. Now we are left with our memories of that Pee-wee magic and Pee-Wee Herman’s star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I truly feel my own imagination was influenced by his — boundless, colorful and ever inventive. I have maintained my sense of playfulness into adulthood, also something I can attribute to this comedic genius and this timeless character.

As Steve Martin said in a tribute to the late Reubens, “Pee-wee got his wish to fly.”

Au revoir, Pee-wee. Au revoir.