Topic: Snow

Author: Chris Dunn

Mittens over gloves, thick denim pants, three pairs of socks stuffed into boots, three shirts under a sweater and a bulky winter coat, and hats with earflaps, or better yet, ski masks. All this, and even so, “Don’t stay out too long!” Properly armored we charged out into our snow days giddy with all the frozen promise blanketing the outside world. Running, digging, throwing snow, it didn’t take long before your double-insulated hands were drenched in sweat. When we returned home and stripped off our gear on the small linoleum patch that kept the living room carpet safe, our skin was either damp and clammy where covered or dry and cherry red where exposed to the wind. This was I expect from winter.

In ’78, the blizzard dumped so much snow on the Miami River Valley, that the Ohio River froze over. The snow drifts were six feet high against the hill which rose to meet the high school football field. We hollowed out tunnels and bunkers against the express order of our absent mothers whose stories of trapped children suffocating under collapsed roofs rang hollow before the wonder of our construction. IF, the worst happened, we could dig our way to freedom, surely. After all, It was only snow. So much snow!

And sledding! “This hill is called the Devil’s Backbone!” friends bragged as we carried our various plastic conveyances through wooded trails passed smaller, unacceptable hills. Some sleds were round hard plastic with handles to the sides, certain to capsize to any horizontal energy. Others were more traditional, long and thin with the front curved up and backwards toward the driver. Some kids just made do with a piece of cardboard, but the hours spent thundering downward as the wind blistered your cheeks and snow found every gap in mother’s meticulous defenses were the very definition of bliss. Struggling to climb to the height of the slippery slope, hampered by our limited mobility and heavy, plastic burdens, we’d race down in two’s and three’s – more bodies meant greater speed – only to grind to a halt at the bottom and then repeat the process until our legs finally gave out.

The fortress took hours to construct using a bread pan to make bricks of snow and then stacking them row upon row until the curved barrier stood between us and the enemy fortification some ten to fifteen feet away. Once our ammunition supplies were deemed sufficient, we would commence bombardment at an official signal. At least, that was the plan. Inevitably, someone would get antsy and strike out prematurely at an easy target gathering ammo outside his fortification. Such a cheap shot could also the herald the commencement of hostilities but resulted in conflicts of increased vitriol due to stinging cheeks and hurt feelings. Blows would be traded back and forth until one of two things happened: Someone got hit in the face and started to cry, or; One side ran out of ammo and in a desperate, final measure charged across no-man’s land and battered down the opposing structure like some mad titan.

These fond memories of my youth, are now just the sad stories of an old man talking about how it used to get cold, “back in my day…” I scoff at people when they speak of snowfall and complain of cold temperatures, confident that I can endure the worst this state has to throw my way – certain I have already done so. But the other day, I drove passed one of our old sledding grounds and noted with some measure of doubt that the slope was slight at best and the range no more than a small, handful of yards. We would have been hard pressed to get up any real speed on that thing, and yet in my mind I can still feel the whip of the wind against my cheeks and recall the thrill of the rapid descent. Outside today, a six-inch blanket of ice calls to my inner child, but I doubt I could find there the joy I once knew. Instead, I’ll stay where it’s warm and toast red wine to the fond memory of winters past.