We nibble at the ice stuck to our old mittens and don't mind that our Sears snow pants have long since wet through. We can't feel our toes or fingers and our cheeks are purple-red with cold. I am pretty sure our noses are running like faucets, too.
We don't even notice. We have ESP! Yes! We can sit atop our make shift igloo and guess what color the next car traveling down or up Bridge Street will be. We are ALWAYS right. Because we peek, of course. But, in our ten year old hearts, we have special powers. Not to mention the fact that it is Bridge Street in Croghan, New York on the day of a blizzard. Maybe, maybe... ten cars top went by all day.
I don't remember what else we talked about or who we talked about. I clearly recall it being a fabulous, childhood snow day.
I am thirteen. My ankles are sore, and again with those numb fingers. No snow pants now! I wear my tightest jeans and leg warmers and ear muffs and am, certainly, freezing. I am skating around and around and around the ice rink behind the old firehall. Boys are there. Boys I have suddenly decided are "cute". They play hockey and intentionally hit all of the girls with the puck. Carefully, of course (until someone loses an eye, hee hee). When we gals can barely stand and our coldness equals pain, we change our skates for white boots that lace up with fur around the edges (all, without doubt, purchased from the Big N in Lowville), and cross the quiet road to Wishy's. We order hot chocolates all around, heaped with whipped cream. We sip and gossip about The Boys as our extremities tingle and ache as they welcome the cold. Without a doubt, The Boys soon follow us. Eventually, we are playing pool or ping pong in someone's cellar and pizza is ordered from Stump's.
I am sixteen. I have a new black and white ski suit that I got for Christmas. Someone's parents have braved the roads and delivered a crew of us to Snow Ridge. I ride the lift with a handsome strange boy. On the last lift ride, he holds my hand.... and, my heart along with it. We swish and swoosh down black diamond trails and I pretend I am not terrified. But I am. And not just of the trails. I have reached a stage in my young adult life where challenge is thrill tinged with terror. It is a sign of future me. I never did heed it.
Flash forward to snow days today. I shovel. I snow blow. Once, in a blue moon, I bundle up and take a walk in The White Stuff. We do not have a friendly relationship anymore. My daughter's snow existence never went beyond the Snowman building stage, for many reasons... all medical. We have created a Nice Nest for snow days. We cook and bake. We watch Netflix. She sings and plays piano or the ukelele. I knit and scrap book and write. And, I think.
I think about the love/hate relationship I have with the white stuff. The stuff that keeps me from my dance studio and work. The stuff that makes my back pain when shoveling. The stuff that my doxie stands in and looks up at me with a What The F*** look on its little face while peeing. The stuff that builds up.
But, I think, snow helps me with The Stuff That Builds Up. It forces me to slow down, sit down, look around, and think. It makes time for a certain perspective that lacks in my usual busy life.
It brings back a realm of incredible memories... especially the one when, the first snow fall after my Mom's death, so many people reached out to me. Mandee and Derek came the night of Christmas in Croghan. They swaddled 4 year old Madi in her purple snow suit and shielded my heart from the bitter cold. They held our hands and marched through knee deep snow so that we could behold a little town filled with Christmas love and magic. That snow culminates in a memory I will always cherish when, the next day, my Dad and Brother and now Sister-in-law all came to my door bundled in their winter clothes. Madi and I donned ours and, missing one, we all went out to build a snowman. We rolled our grief in to tight snowman body parts. We broke twigs and found a carrot. We wrapped a colorful scarf around our snowman. We came together to make something we could all touch and see in our most difficult time.
And Madi got to build a snowman. At 4 years old, this is the stuff that matters.
That snowman melted, much like the noose of grief around my neck.
All these winters later, it is a dull ache... much like the memory of those numb fingers as I sat atop a mammoth snow hill with a child hood friend and practiced the rite of ESP.
Snowstorms? Maybe The Big Guy Upstairs knows what he's doing... whether you venture out or build your nest today, embrace the reality that Mother Nature wins... and you might as well, too.
No comments:
Post a Comment