The ghostly whiteness cast
an illuminating glow inside the house all night. Trees were claiming their
stake of the pristine snow-covered ground with intense shadows. The moon was a
hanging globe of shiny silvery yellow.
The sunrise made the snow
sparkle with an orange glow peppered with crystal rhinestones. It was an invigorating
and frost-biting sun.
When my hubby shoveled the
drive way, the scraping of the plastic against the asphalt reverberated in the
quiet stillness of the street. An occasional stronger gust of wind would
temporarily blind him with a snow shower from the tree tops. The tall oaks were
creaking with frozen stiffness.
I had left a six inch deep
frying pan on the deck last night and it was now covered completely by snow. I
could have used a ruler instead but it was more fun this way.
The roads were deserted in
spite of the school closures. Nobody went to work except my husband. No kids
were outside playing in the snow or sledding down the many hills in the
neighborhood. No laughter of kids chasing each other in snowball fights or
building snowmen. Homes were shuttered like tombs.
Even the animals were
hiding in the woods. There were no deer hoof prints or fox paws in the fresh
fallen snow. A silent black bird with white throat was taking a snow bath on
the lamp post. The non-hibernating squirrels were hiding in their nests; the
ground was way too cold and frozen to dig for nuts between the evergreens.
Are the kids sleeping late
or huddled in front of television or computer screens? Are they frightened by the
cold, afraid to play outside because they might hurt themselves?
We used to play outside all
day in bitter cold winters, oblivious to frigid cold, wetness, and slosh around
us or the adult discomfort and misery. Parents had to walk to work, slipping often
on the thick ice. We took tumbles like rubber figurines, getting up with a
roaring laughter each time, rubbing the painful part.
Bundled up to the eyeballs
in layers, with pajamas next to the skin, kids were stuffed like Michelin Men.
We skated and sledded until dark, sometimes hitching rides on the tail bumper
of slow moving cars. There were no regulators around to tell us that we might
die. When the lights came on, we knew it was time to go home. Our clothes were
so wet and frozen, it took a little while to peel off all the layers, like a
tight onion.
Some dads pulled their
children on sleighs on Sundays, trudging through snow and ice like dutiful oxen
to make their bundled kids happy. We tobogganed down a steep hill nearby, climbing
it with a flexible flyer in tow over and over until our cheeks were rosy and
our running noses red from the blustery wind.
On our way to school, sometimes
we were secluded from view and wind by snow drifts on both sides – it looked
like we were walking through crystal tunnels, occasionally splashed by passing
busses. Often the two mile walk back and forth to school was very cold and painful
when we slipped on ice or the wind picked up, we were buffeted so hard that the
snow felt like little ice daggers cutting our faces with the discomfort of
paper cuts – pain by a thousand miniature icicles.
There was a nice ski
resort called Sinaia, not far from my hometown – it was “reserved” for foreign
vacationers who paid in dollars and the communist elites who had villas in the
area and could afford to buy the equipment, pay for lessons, and ride the ski
lift to the top. The skating rinks were reserved for the elites as well – ice
skates and boots were very expensive.
Our fun winters from long
ago are now called polar vortex by the very wise and omniscient climate change discoverers.
I drove to Sinaia last
year and visited the lodging base area where more hotels have been built since
the temporary “fall” of communism. Now that capitalism in America has given me
the opportunity to afford to fly to a ski resort, stay in a ski lodge, buy
equipment or rent it, ride the lift to the top, my knees are not so
cooperative.
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