snow

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Winter memories

This time of year stirs up so many memories.

Many memories are tied to the holidays, of course. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s—they all stick out from the ordinary days in a child’s memory. Even after growing up, they are still special days and, perhaps because they are so often shared with friends and family, they evoke strong memories.

I have many memories of ordinary days in winter, too. I am not completely certain why, but I suspect it has something to do with the cold creating a heightened sense of awareness. The cold can be dangerous here (the heat and humidity can, too, of course). There also may be a sense that winter is another world entirely than the more benevolent months of the year.

At any rate, being outside in winter for me evokes very immediate sensory memories. For example, today the snow was the beautiful Hollywood snow for much of the day: big snowflakes, the weather was not too cold, and there was not much wind. This reminds me of some of my earliest winters, spent in Omaha. (It’s true, I’m not a Minnesota native, but I moved here when I was seven, so most of my formative years were spent here. My father is a native, so I consider myself a Minnesotan by adoption and experience.) We had the bone-chilling, below-zero cold less often there than we have here. Snow was more likely to be soft and wet and suitable for making snow people, snow angels, snow forts, and snow balls. When I feel the sloppy, slushy snow like we had today, I remember vividly playing outside until my snow pants and coat, my woolen mittens and scarf were soaked from melting snow. I also remember walking around downtown Minneapolis, late in the winter after I graduated from college, going to and from my first “real” job. I can almost feel the crack in my boots where the slush from the spring melting started to come up into my boot. How angry I was that it was going to ruin my tights that I was wearing with my new dress, and how worried I was that someone or something was going to splash the sloppy, wet, gray mess in the streets and on the sidewalks onto me, ruining my dress. It turned out to be a well-founded fear.

Tonight, the temperature is falling and the wind is coming up. As I listen to it blow outside, I remember cold nights in the house in Lakeville where I grew up. My sister and I shared a bedroom on the northeast side of the house, and I remember lying in our beds, snuggling down under the blankets, as we listened to the wind roaring outside the house, the snow sifting against the siding and the windows. It’s not a very loud sound—icy snow blowing on the outside of the house—but I know that it is cold outside when I hear it.

A plow just drove along our street. That takes me back to listening to the plow go up and down the street outside our window. As I hear the scraping of the plow, I can almost feel myself lying in bed, wondering if we’ll have a snow day. (I don’t believe we had nearly enough snow today to warrant one for tomorrow.)

When I shovel the driveway, I remember all the shoveling I had to do as a kid. I don’t believe my father invested in a snow thrower until after my brother and I were away at college. He may have waited until our younger sister left home. I was surprised when he finally bought one. It brought home to me that he was no longer as young as he used to be. The man could shovel thick, heavy snow faster than anyone I ever knew. I still cannot fill a shovel half as full or throw the snow half as far. When I am shoveling, I can almost see him attacking the snow with a fierce, undivided intensity.

Going for a walk in the snow also brings back memories. For most of elementary school, I had to walk at least a couple of blocks to a bus stop or to school. My most vivid memories are of walking to school in fourth and fifth grade. It was a walk of several blocks, probably more than half a mile, and I had to go up and over a hill. In the winter, it always seemed colder walking over that hill than on any other stretch of the walk. The wind seemed to pick up speed and cause the sidewalks to drift over, even when the homeowners had shoveled them clear. (Not all of them ever did clear them.) As an adult, when I’m walking the dog on a cold winter morning, and I come along a stretch of sidewalk that has not been cleared, I feel like I’m ten years old again. I can feel my brother’s old snowmobile boots on my feet, the wool scarf my mom knitted me over my face, my hands in the mittens that might not have dried from the day before. It is a memory of bitter cold and fatigue, of tromping through snow drifts past my knees, feeling the burning snow on my cheeks. Maybe that’s why I feel exceptionally irritated when our neighbors don’t clear their sidewalks.

I don’t sled or skate much anymore. The hills and the ice seem much harder than they used to. But when I hear the scrape of skates on ice, I am transported back to the nights I used to spend at the figure skating rink across the street from our house. I can still feel the icy air in my nose and my toes slowing growing numb as tried to skate like my neighbor. She was a good skater, and I was not. Sometimes she tried to help me, sometimes she laughed at me. (She wasn’t the only one.) I finally gave up ice skating in frustration. I am always amazed when my kids want to skate. I never enjoyed it, but they do, laughing even when they fall, laughing when they glide.

I wonder what kind of memories they will have of winter. They already have some. They associate snow with playing outside, sledding and building forts. Soon I expect they’ll be asking if the skating rinks have been flooded so they can go skating. (Given the weather forecast, it will certainly be cold enough for it.) Will they have memories of watching their father use the snow thrower (and me the shovel)? Will the feel of nylon and Thinsulate evoke the same kind of sense memories them as I have of wool and leather? Will they learn the sounds that snow makes when it’s warmer or colder? Will they be able to tell by the sound of the plow if a snow day is likely? I wonder. I hope they’ll share their memories with me someday.

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Winter in Minnesota

Winter is settling in. We had a couple of hours of snow this afternoon, and the forecast calls for more. It is December. It is time.

The snow this afternoon was one of those perfect December snows: enormous clumps of snowflakes falling straight down, almost like rain. A few degrees warmer, and it would have been rain. It was a Hollywood kind of snow.

My husband had just put some Christmas lights on the trees in front, and they looked pretty in the snow. (This is the first year we’ve had lights outside since moving here in 2007. Every year, either the snow or other circumstances have conspired against him.) And it was the perfect amount of snow: just enough to make the yards look pretty and magnify and soften the brilliance of the Christmas lights at our house and at the many other houses. Fortunately, we didn’t have enough snow to make the roads too slippery. Yet.

The National Weather Service has issued a winter storm watch for our area, between tomorrow and Thursday. We have the potential for more than six inches of snow. It might be pretty, but it will cause many more headaches. I’m thinking about my schedule for the remainder of the week: work, son’s Lego robotics class, both children’s basketball practices, daughter’s basketball game, errands. Snow and icy roads adds another dimension of confusion and chaos to the list of things to accomplish each day. This is what I dislike most about winter.

I also dislike the clutter of boots and snow pants. I dislike searching for hats and gloves, reminding children to bundle up, wiping the dog’s paws when she comes inside, and vacuuming up the grit that seems to be tracked in from the streets, even when we remove our boots at the door. I dislike my nose running when I go outside, and I dislike driving in my warm winter coat (too bulky) and gloves (too slippery).

Those annoyances aside, I like spending the winter in Minnesota. I like the stillness on a weekend morning after a snowfall, before the snowmobiles and snow throwers begin their noisy drone. There is nothing like that peace. I like the sound of snow under my boots, and I like how I can tell the approximate temperature by listening to that sound: the colder the temperature, the squeakier the snow.

I like seeing chickadees and cardinals in the snow, and the flash of a squirrel’s tail on a sunny winter day, as it searches for nuts. I like to go cross country skiing or snowshoeing and come across a place where a herd of deer have bedded down, their shapes imprinted on the snow. I like to see the flamboyant flash of a cock pheasant in a snow-covered field. I like to see muskrat houses and beaver dams on the snow- and ice-covered lakes and wetlands. I like to see owls and eagles sitting in trees, no longer hidden by the dense summer covering of leaves. I like to see the brilliant blue sky on a cold January day, when I feel like there is nothing between me and heaven.

I like walking the dog on a windless day with the snow crunching under our feet. I like the feeling of accomplishment of shoveling the driveway after a snowfall. I like cups of hot tea, a comfortable chair, an afghan, and a good book. I like the excuse of having to stay inside because it’s “too cold,” and I like going outside when it “warms up” to above zero (Fahrenheit). I like watching the kids play in the snow and slide down the hill. (I don’t enjoy doing it so much anymore, because my feet get cold and going down the hill on a sled hurts much more as an adult than it does as a child.)

I’ve lived in warmer climes, and I can appreciate the convenience of not having to worry about snow and ice. For all that, I love the winters in Minnesota. I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.