Well it finally feels like winter. After experiencing the warmest January in memory, with temperatures reaching the fifties, we are now chilled by temperatures struggling to get out of the teens. The weathermen are now forecasting the possibility of a true Nor'easter this weekend.
Oh, be still my heart. I yearn for the snow storms of my chilhood. School canceled, schedules out the window, road blocked by drifts that looked like sand dunes in the Sahara. Snow piled so high that my friends and I would leap off the roof of the chicken house with wild abandon and plunge so deep in the snow that others would have to pull us out so that we could do it all again. We would have sledding races that began up on the hill next to the barn, then sweep down through the gate, around the old barn foundation, past the out buildings, between the house and garage, and finally out onto the snow covered road. There would be five, six, maybe seven of us; all speeding down the hill at the same time, imagining we were future olympians. Exhausted and exhilarated we would come into the kitchen, our snow covered and dripping boots, jackets, and hats left on the porch; Mom would pour the hot chocolate into the big white mugs that were usually reserved for the adults coffee. Our frost bitten fingers would throb with a delicious pain as the heat penetrated our frozen exteriors. Now, our faces a ruddy red, we would take the Monopoly game down from the shelf and begin a competition that would last for hours. We would listen to WPTR on the radio. They would be broadcasting from a remote live location down at the four corners in the village. It was only a mile from us but might have well been on the other side of the word because we were most assuredly "snowed in". The radio station would promote crazy contests like inviting young women to show up in a bikini in the midst of the blizzard. We would laugh and fantasize about older girls from school in such apparel. Once the sun went down we would go outside again, the storm over, moonlight glistening off the snow. Dad would warm up maple syrup and we would pour it on the fresh fallen snow and have instant candy.
Oh, how I long for a snow like the one imagined in Robert Frost's famous poem. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.