NOSTALGIC TRIP IN SNOW by Marion Ekholm

Murial’s post got me thinking about snow and school cancellations and freezing cold birthdays. I’m from Connecticut so I can remember all those days when my brother, Jim, and I longed for snow and a chance to stay home from school. Our cancellations came over the radio, and we were up early listening to all the schools that were closed, praying that ours would be one of the lucky ones. No one ever considered that we’d be making the days up in June and suffering in the heat without air-conditioning.

 We built forts. I’d have mine on one side of the driveway, and Jim had his on the other. It was such fun, tossing snow balls at each other, our cheeks all red from the cold. Then we’d take our sleds and slide down the snow covered street before the snow melted and patches of black asphalt appeared.

My sixteenth birthday came on a Friday in early November, and I was supposed to go to the movies that night to celebrate. It snowed and snowed and snowed. It was the first time I could remember ever getting snow that early. School was cancelled, and Jim was home sick. He couldn’t enjoy the free day, nor could he do his paper route.

So on my BIRTHDAY, I was forced to spend hours hiking through hip high snow to deliver those papers. Obviously, the movies were out since the only vehicle able to get through the storm had been that darn newspaper truck. I was furious. After I spent the whole afternoon delivering those papers, I had a long discussion with my brother and mother. From that time on they found someone else to take over the route whenever Jim got sick.   

At college in Providence, the traffic stopped on College Hill once we had snow. Students from all the neighboring colleges took advantage and slid down the hill, usually on trays from the various cafeterias. So Murial, stealing trays for sledding must be a universal occurrence. One time a group of guys from Brown University stopped at our dormitory and threw snowballs at our building. We girls enjoyed the spectacle from the safety of the second floor.

When I moved to my job in New York City, I became active with a group of skiing enthusiasts. I loved it and looked forward to every weekend on the slopes. I preferred the Bunny trails, the ones meant for the inexperienced. I can still remember my fiancé insisting I was better than that and needed to go on more advanced slopes. We went on the ski lift together, and he pointed out the path below that I needed to take. I followed him down the steep incline. Halfway through the run, I panicked. But if I stopped, I’d never get off the mountain without the help of a helicopter. I made it, lost all my love for skiing and never went skiing again.

Years later, now married to the same guy, we went on skimobiles with my husband driving and my son sitting on the back holding onto his father. My daughter and I were in a special sled pulled behind. He went so fast. My daughter, and I bounced all over the place, desperately holding onto the edges for some balance. I screamed at him to slow down, but he couldn’t hear me over the sound of the machine. Once he did stop, I found a long branch to take with me and hit him with it whenever I wanted his attention.

I’ve never been fond of the cold, although in my youth I tolerated it. For the past twenty plus years I’ve enjoyed the absence of snow in sunny Arizona. No more black ice, freezing toes or scraping ice off the windshield. Winter has arrived here. The temperature has dipped below 80, and I’ve had to get my warm clothing out.    

Thank you Murial, for reminding me about all those memories of fun in the snow. I’ve enjoyed the nostalgic trip in the safety of my warm office and hope I’ll never see snow again.