Snow

Central Maine

When I was a child, I reveled in snow storms. They were excuses to stay home from school, to play, and to drink big cups of hot cocoa. I would sled down our long driveway and play in the tunnels that my brother built out of plowed snow piles. I rolled snowballs, even though I hated snowball fights. I built snow puppies and snow kitties before rolling on my back and creating my own snow angels. I once made a restaurant, serving snow versions of different food. I dusted icicles with snow like they were pretzels dipped in chocolate. They didn't taste as good as the latter, but I'd eat them all the same.

When I was a child, I cross-country skied. I went on long treks across abandoned railroads with my father or ventured deep into the forest, always afraid of a steep slope no matter how many times I mastered them. I wrapped the scarf my mother crocheted for me several times around my neck, burying my cheeks in the soft yarn before the wind could turn them frostbitten. 

When I was a child, heavy snow storms wracked the branches of nearby trees. The wet snow would weigh them down until they cracked under the pressure. They fell down on power lines and left my home in darkness. I roamed the halls with a lantern, sitting at the table to play cards with the family, work on my coloring book, or write another story. My dog would get extra attention, as I laid on the floor next to him, reading from one of my books.

When I was a child, I pulled on ice skates and soared across frozen ponds. The winters would be so cold that the nearby lake would develop a thick layer of ice, and I would skate to islands where I was too weak to swim to in the summer. I wobbled on the ice, not realizing that I was building a skill for rollerblading, which I would fall in love with when I was in middle school. At age 18, I was quite out of practice, but when I rented ice skates at my university's hockey rink, I discovered that, like riding a bike, everything came back to me.

When I was a child, I would burst with excitement over seeing any bird that wasn't a chickadee at the feeder. Cardinals were uncommon at home, and whenever I spotted one, I announced it to the whole house. They would snack on the seeds leftover from the squirrels, who liked to knock the feeders down from their posts. I'd venture outside later to retrace their paw prints and sometimes discover deer or rabbit tracks as well.

Now, as an adult, I struggle through winter. A snowstorm is an inconvenience most days, and lost electricity is no longer a fun change, but a frustrating one. Scraping the ice from my car's windshield, I beg for all the snow to melt, or to at least be poor for making snowmen because that's also when my back begins to hurt from shoveling. I don't ski or ice skate. They're nice ideas, but the lakes don't freeze over like they used to, and I haven't owned skates or skis that fit in over a decade. Instead, if I'm lucky and don't have work to do, I curl up in a blanket, still with my big cup of hot cocoa and maybe a book or movie to fill my time while I wait for spring.