I think there's something very sacred and intimate about the silent drift of a dark night snowfall. I remember being young and easily tranced. The shouts from the first sibling who discovered the happening by realizing it was quiet... too quiet. They would eventual part the curtains or jump up on the back of the couch to take a peek out the window. “Sound the alarm!” their 8 year old instincts would bellow at them. “IT’S SNOWING! IT’S SNOOOOWING OUTSIDE!”. Even mother, as sage as she was, would walk over to the large, square dining room window, wiping her floured hands off on her apron as she went, to take a glance and sweetly say “Oh my goodness, isn’t that beautiful!?”
A snowy night. Those three words sound mystic in their own right, not needing to put anymore to it than that. It truly has an alien beauty and wonder to it. The dark becomes especially dark, The light no longer comes from the heavens but the white earth itself. The skies being billowed and sheeted by the dark and rolling clouds.
Yup. Thats the frosty white reverence of the snow day. I don’t think it can, or should, be matched. Physically it forces you and your loved ones to borrow up together at home.
Thick quilted blankets and funny cartoons, hot, marhsmellowed cocoa and holiday coloring books. These were the things that painted my families home with our very own winter culture growing up. I remember how out of the front and back yard rose empires and sovereign nations. How the roads and dens, the city walls and gates, the town squares and the farms, would eventually trickle out to the edge where the Maine woods began behind our house. And beyond that, nothing but the wild, dark, and deep woods, ringing with their silence. It was at the edge of this icy nether that you could hear the blood pounding in your ears. Where the dangerous beauty of the long and gleaming icicles creaked in the cold.
And the snowball wars that erupted. How incredible! Sooner or later during the building of snowy kingdoms, someone would grow restless and throw a snowball. You heard the sound of the 'THOOFF' when it made contact with its unsuspecting target. The culprit would then dive quickly into his nearest cover as the return-fire commenced, digging his fort around him and he kept up the offense. The art of snowball war was a balance of structural defense and firepower, which meant the more arms, the better. We would split into our sibling factions and head off around the neighborhood to find help for our cause (destroy the enemy by snow). More often then not, we would find another battle going on and join it. Once the heat of the war was really on, you had to seriously get organized if you expected to have any REAL fun. So a leader would be voted and they would be the ones to assigned everyone their duties.
“YOU! Dig holes! YOU! Make snow balls! YOU! Go scout!”
Hurray! A purpose! A reason to be! And a contribution towards the war effort... towards victory!
On our street was one, more formidable than the others. His name was Floyd. Aside from being a decade older than any of us, and rather large compared to other adults (if I remember correctly), had a talent all snowball warriors fear; Floyd caught snowballs. Caught them with his hands. You either had to be a ninja on the wiliest of sneak attacks from behind, or the hardest pitcher on the block, or Floyd would catch them, and make you wish you never threw them.
The cold, snowy weather of the winter months will always hold a special place in my heart. Nothings quite like a walk through a snow covered scape. The Snow heaped up like blobs of smooth white cream on the eaves of houses, street lamps, and tree branches. All water, frozen and glitteringly caught in time. There is nothing with this same type of trancing magic I don’t think. And by the time it comes to a close I think most of us are glad. Seasons are timed perfectly, and at the end of winter we are done and ready for spring. But the deep thoughts and fantasies of those chilled and quite months isn’t forgotten. And they wait for us at the door when winter comes again.
“Silver white winters that melt into spring”~ The Sound Of Music
