Anyone who has known me for more than 30 seconds knows that I do not like snow, ice and cold, the three main ingredients of an Indiana winter. And a Pennsylvania winter, which is where I learned to loathe that season. And many of you reading this may have survived the Indianapolis “Snowpocalypse” of 2026.0
On Sunday morning, January 25th, I pulled on my thick Bombas socks, donned a sweatshirt, and covered it with a thick hoodie; I stepped into a gigantic pair of winter pants, slid my arms into my trusty Army field jacket and pulled on a hand-knitted hat. I covered my hands with two great, thick gloves. All of this was in preparation for clearing the snowfall from my walk. I felt like Ralphie’s brother Randy from Jean Shepherd’s “Christmas Story.” When asked in a text by my youngest daughter if I was all right, I replied that I was “getting ready to knock down some snow.” Her response: “NO.” She didn’t want her septuagenarian father testing his heart, heaving shovelfuls of snow.
I worked slowly and carefully, and as I did, I heard the guttural grind of a shovel scraping snow as my next-door neighbor also worked to remove some snow. The couple had recently returned from a hiking trip where there were all three of my favorite things: snow, ice and cold. They cleared snow just as I did, but I wondered if their clearance lasted longer than mine; my cleared path lasted about 40 minutes. As I peck away at these keys, in my mind I can see my flamingo lawn ornament, up to its butt in snow. I looked out the door when I saw two figures gamboling in the snow – GROWN PEOPLE! I watched them flop onto their backs to make snow angels and rise to toss snowballs.
When my two youngest children were, well – younger, their mother and I would read a book to them. Karen Gundersheimer’s book, “Happy Winter” was the bedtime favorite for Lauren and Chris, and their parents learned the text of the book through endless repetition. It starts with “Happy winter, rise and shine,” and throws in “Frosty patterns look like lace,” a phenomenon I have observed, though not happily. Ironically, two of the best adult books I have read both involve “snow.” David Guterson’s “Snow Falling on Cedars” speaks of love lost, and a nation’s irrational interment of Japanese during World War II. And Peter Høeg’s excellent “Smilla’s Sense of Snow” – which was made into a movie in 1997 – is centered (ironically) in Greenland. I loved both books and did not shiver as I read them.
I like to joke that, growing up in Pittsburgh, I had to walk to and from school, uphill both ways, in snow up to my waist. But in truth, my brother and I both brought home frostbitten fingers and toes after we earned $1 each and a bag of candy for shoveling the snow around the building that my uncle managed. My mother had us submerge our feet and hands in cold water, a remedy that may have preserved my digits for art school. But now, when the weather drops below 60 degrees, my frostbitten fingers panic, and I put on gloves.
So yes: The weather outside is truly frightful, my useless fireplace looks delightful. I picture my neighbors trudging through the snow to collect wood for their fireplace while I sip the beer gifted to me by my other neighbor’s son. I may have no place to go but I still do not want to let it snow.
No.
cjon3acd@att.net