We all have a story
I always feel better when the weather behaves in a seasonally appropriate way. As I write this, snow has begun to fall and we are a day away from the second significant cold snap in January. As much as I dread what the meteorologists call a polar vortex, I tell myself it’s a good thing. Winter should be cold.
Those of us who grew up in the Northeast have stories to recount about the winters of our youth. If you tell them right, the winters are always colder and fiercer than what we’re dealing with now. As a child, I could predict when my father was about to launch into a story about how much harder things were back in his day when he began, “Well, when I was a boy.” He relished enhancing the details. They always included walking several miles uphill, both ways.
My husband, Rob, remembers the blizzard of Feb. 9, 1969. He was just a kid, but that date is etched on his brain because his father had gotten tickets to the game between the New York Rangers and the Philadelphia Flyers. It would be the first live NHL game Rob had ever seen. It was even more significant because it was to be played at the brand-new Madison Square Garden. Well, the snow fell and fell. There was no way Rob and his father could make it into New York. It turns out the players also had a hard time getting there and didn’t start the game until 9:15 p.m. Although Rob missed the game, he kept the tickets, perhaps as a souvenir to his father’s good intentions.
When I thought about a momentous snowfall of my youth, I recalled that exact blizzard, although I didn’t know it was the same one until I researched the dates of big snowstorms in New Jersey. I knew it had to have been the same storm, though, because the next significant one didn’t occur until nine years later on Feb. 5, 1978. That snowless streak is consistent with my memory of spending the bulk of my childhood winters pining for a snow day.
So while Rob was desperately hoping to get to his Rangers game, I was having a sleepover at my friend Joyce’s house, a few towns over from mine. The snow came down fast and furious. I was happily stuck there for an extra day, spending hours making an igloo with my best friend and her three brothers. When the igloo was finished, we sat inside on the snow-packed floor with a sense of reverence, watching our breath form little clouds. The muffled sounds of other kids playing nearby seemed a world away.
There was something heroic about that day. We children worked as a team to brave the elements and harness our brains and small hands to roll and pack enough snowballs to make a proper house. No grown-ups were involved, except to help us out of our cold and wet snowsuits at the end of the day and warm us up with steaming mugs of hot chocolate.
Many years later, I told that story to my children in the hopes that someday they would experience a blizzard and have a few friends with whom to build an igloo. Their chance came on Dec. 18, 2009, when they were 9 years old. Snow – the kind that packs well – fell all day. I remember them experimenting with ways to make a solid roof and brimming with excitement when their igloo came together. Although I think my igloo had been bigger, they now have a memory to share with their future children. Like me, I’m sure they’ll also think their igloo was bigger.
If our snowfall amounts to anything, I’ll spend some time outside enjoying the wonder of winter. And when I see kids playing in the snow, I may suggest that they try building their own igloo. I’ll look forward to hearing their story.
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