Dreaming of Snow

13 11 2010

This weekend is going to be filled with snow for most people near my father’s house in the Cities and my old college stomping grounds in Mankato…and I am jealous! I always look forward to the first snow of the season with all of its magical majesty…drifting down gently and increasing my excitement for the coming holidays.

For now, there is no sign of snow in SuFu and I am more than a little bummed that the sky is not raining down the fluffy white stuff on my house. I really wish that I was in the “Winter Storm Warning” area so that I could see the 6-10” that was projected for those areas!

When I was a child, I really enjoyed the first snow, pressing my hands and nose against the chilly, slightly fogged glass of the large windows facing our backyard where the snow drifted down to blanket the world in white. I would beg my mother to let my brother and myself put on our snuggly snowpants, coat, mittens, hat and boot so we could run about in the snow.

That first step into the crunchy snow, watching my footsteps appear behind me as I traipsed clumsily through the backyard (weighed down by all the winter wear that my overprotective mother bundled me up in) was fantastic to me. I loved the way the snow changed on different days…how some days it could clump together into snowballs if pressed hard enough or slide apart in tiny grains like sand pressed together in my small clumsy mittens. The ever-changing nature of the snow intrigued me as a child, filled me with wonder and could entertain me for hours as I sat in our windows and watched it fall.

My favorite memory of the snow was when my father would join his small children outside to make a giant (to us) snowman from the slightly moist snow that would hold together when rolled into giant balls. We would start by finding the perfect spot on the side of the house, make a large ball of snow and then try to push, shove and roll it in circles or lines in order to roll more snow onto its bulk. My father would watch us for as long as we were making progress but eventually he would chuckle and step in to easily roll the growing snow ball. We repeated this three times, making slightly smaller balls with each time and my father would heave them one on top of each other while we packed snow in around the base of the balls to secure them in place. I loved to smooth the surface, making it uniform and level as my brother scouted branches for the arms. We added branches, small dark rocks for the eyes, a strange-looking carrot for the nose and an ancient hat and scarf that we saved specifically for this purpose. I loved those few hours that we got to spend with our father making a snowman that we could look at and play with every day, even when he was gone.

For me, snow means security, wonder, excitement and the possibility of a father’s love and attention for a few stolen hours; even as an adult, I still remember the child’s adoration and glee that accompanied those hours with my favorite person in the entire world.

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