Warm, snowy memories
So far this winter, I’ve had to call a tow truck, slipped on ice in a parking lot and hurt my backside, and managed to strain my right arm while shoveling the driveway.
I’m getting old.
I used to love snow and the excitement of a snow day. Really, I did.
I remember my brother waiting up at night to listen to Dave Dahl’s forecast. He’d sit on the edge of the couch, wide-eyed and hopeful, eagerly waiting for the magical school-canceling words “lots of snow” or “blizzard” to spill from Dahl’s mouth.
One wintery night, Dahl had forecasted an especially heavy snowfall and lots of wind. My brother cheered with delight and both of us climbed the stairs to bed believing we would get a glorious, long-awaited day off of school the next day. But, in the morning, my brother threw up his window shade to find not even a trace of snow. I, too, was disappointed, but my brother’s outrageous reaction to the failed forecast always proved entertaining.
He’d stomp downstairs, flip on the television, and find a weather report to figure out where all the snow went. Quite often, the snow went just north or south of us, leaving us free to go to school on time… not even a measly two-hour late start. A few choice words would pop out of my brother’s mouth about weathermen, and mom would act surprised over the words coming out of my brother’s mouth while she hustled us upstairs to get ready for school.
But, THEN, there were those magical mornings when the snow surprised us. On those days, mom, who was always up first, would sneak into our bedrooms and turn off our alarm clocks to allow us a few more hours of sleep. If we heard her, my brother and I would pop out of bed and race downstairs in our pajamas to watch the name of our school zip across the bottom of the television. Oh, what joy!
After we’d confirmed the school closing with our own eyes, we’d switch the T.V. channel to a cartoon (usually The Jetsons) and settle in for a big breakfast featuring mom’s homemade French toast and tall glasses of orange juice… and a long, lazy day of nothing special to do.
Dad always went to work. Always. Even when the snowplow got stuck on our gravel road, dad somehow managed to get to his office.
Back at home, I usually curled up with a book and a blanket.
My brother would play Nintendo until the snow was deep enough for the snowmobile. Then, he’d bundle up, trudge out to the shed, pull the heavy machine outside, and start up the snowmobile’s old, two-cycle engine. That distinct, oily smell still triggers memories of my childhood winter days.
He’d drive around the yard and nearby fields until lunchtime. Then, he’d come inside to eat and watch The Price Is Right on the kitchen television, while I sat at a little table in the living room, trying to follow Bob Ross’ televised orders to “build a happy little cloud” or “some happy little trees” with my dime-store watercolor set while munching on the grilled cheese sandwich mom had made for me.
After lunch, my brother would usually talk me into “going snowmobiling” with him. This meant tying a rope to a bright-orange sled and then tying it to the back of the snowmobile. He always drove, and I flew! I held on with all my might, trying to prove how tough I was, but he always managed to throw me off the sled—rolling, tumbling, flying— into the snow. Never did we wear helmets, and thankfully no one was ever severely injured, but I do remember returning to the house with bright-red chapped cheeks.
The rest of the afternoon was usually spent making a snowman in the front yard or sledding or baking cookies or banana bread with mom or binging on Duck Tales and other cartoon shows until dad got home.
We’d have dinner and then head back outside to watch (or help) dad clear the driveway with the plow on the truck. I remember those evenings as being surprisingly silent, after dad parked the truck.
I liked to linger outside by myself, just lying in the snow, looking up at the flakes falling silently out of the dark sky.
I saw my own children doing this the other night while I worked to clear the driveway. Both daughters were stretched out on their backs in the snow, watching the flakes fall.
They had already dug tunnels and caves and rolled snowballs for snowmen, and were just taking a break to enjoy the beauty of the winter night.
Too their surprise, I joined them.
We stuck our tongues out to catch the flakes, and giggled about the dizzying effect of the dancing white dots.
Sometimes, it’s good to remember the warm memories that are rolled up in snow days.
