It’s snowing again! This winter I have thoroughly delighted in the many flurries we’ve had; each one a lovely surprise. This morning for example, just minutes after the weather man predicted a long cold rainy day, literally out of the blue (or grey) the sky was full of big, white, fluffy flakes dancing to the ground. Here at my kitchen table, facing my back yard, I have a front row seat to the snow show. It is exciting in its unexpectedness.
These flurried moments are such a gift! They hold such a possibility of excitement; school closings, power outages, driving challenges. Granted, not all of these things are welcomed, depending on your perspective. As a kid I remember sitting by the radio waiting for my school’s name to be called on snowy mornings, hoping for the blessed “snow day”. My mother, on the other hand, I am certain wished that school would not be cancelled and she could have a few hours of peace and quiet.
Snow is among the top headlines of my childhood memories. Living in the snow belt of Western New York State, snow was a given during any winter season. Despite the snow and ice, most of my memories of cold wintery weather are so warm; memories of sledding, making snow angels and building snow forts.
To protect us from the cold we were bundled in thick layers of clothing that took a long time to wriggle into. Multiply that by four or five and you get an idea of what my poor mother would go through to get us ready to brave the cold on snow days and school days. Yes, even on school days we had to be bundled against the cold. It was a long walk down to the end of the driveway to wait for the bus. As a little girl in the early 60’s, I was expected to wear a skirt to school regardless of the weather, although we were allowed to wear snow-pants underneath to and from. And then there were the boots. The boys wore big black rubber boots with metal locking buckles. I can’t remember what color my boots were, only the difficulty in sliding them over my shoes. Mom heard somewhere that if we put our shoes in bread bags and then slid them into the boots, the boots would slide on easily. It worked well, but I can’t say that I really liked wearing Wonder Bread wrappers over my shoes. Luckily, we weren’t that fashion conscious in those days.
Once out in our yard, we had what seemed like an immense ice cap to explore. A large pine tree with low hanging branches sat in our front yard. The weight of the snow would bend the branches to meet the ground forming a perfect shelter beneath. When the snow was really deep, we would tunnel out a doorway and to the inside and pretend we were Eskimos. It was so very quiet in our igloo under those pine branches insulated by several inches of snow and the air was full of the sweet smell of the pine needles. The protection was so perfect that the floor of our shelter was green grass, an amazing sight for children in a wintery yard.
On one side of our house was a big hill perfect for snow coasters. Since Dad worked all day, the only time he could play with us was in the evening. So, he put a light atop a pole at the top of the hill to light the hillside. After a good snow, we’d go out to the hill and patiently wait while Dad made our coaster run. Slowly and intentionally he would move down the slope, rocking back and forth, creating a deep furrow and banking curves that would steer us clear of the pond to the far right at the base of the hill. Once the run was ready, we’d take turns flying down the hill under the our special light keeping the dark away. We older kids rode solo but the little ones rode down with Dad or even Mom sometimes. My mother has never really been the outdoorsy type, so to have her play with us was extra special.
Eventually it was time to go inside so one by one, we’d file into the house, stomping the snow from our boots. We were both cold and sweaty, our faces red from the cold. We’d peel off the many layers of clothing, kick off our boots and head upstairs in our stocking feet. I’d like to say we all carefully hung up our coats, hats, snow pants and mittens but I’m sure we left a big heap of wet clothes and bread bags on the floor left by the door. Sometimes, Mom would give us our jammies fresh from the dryer. I can still smell the clean freshness and feel the coziness of that warm flannel against my cold skin. It felt like love.
When my own children were in school, I would watch the television, to see if I could just let them sleep a bit longer and have a day “off the clock”. Living in Virginia
was much different than where I grew up. Days with snow on the ground were few and very far in between. Sometimes years would pass without so much as a good flurry. A couple of times I remember see the flurries in the air and hurrying to bundle the kids up so they could at least feel the flakes on their faces, or try to catch one on their tongues. A couple of inches of snow on the ground was a time for celebration, to dig out whatever warm clothes and boots I might have had for the kids (which at times was plastic bags over their sneakers) and go out into the cold to play in the snow while it lasted. The whole neighborhood would be out front, building snowmen and making snow angels. I tried so hard to pass on the legacy of fun in the snow, even if it was only for a few hours or in some cases, minutes.
But then, like today, all to quickly, as if a switch were thrown, the flurries have ended. Now it is sunny and bright. The pavement and deck are dry and except for my memory of a spontaneous flurry, the snow is gone. But in my mind’s eye, the hill is lit and the coaster run is ready for another flight down.