CinnamonGirl

I wrote this a few years ago, and found it again while cleaning and going through old folders. Considering the weather lately, it seemed appropriate to share.

***

I hate snow. I stand on the back porch at 1:43 in the morning, smoking a cigarette (filthy habit) and shivering. Flakes flutter down, settling to earth in a layer that will certainly annoy me as I'm scraping off the car in the morning, driving ever-so-slowly to class, hiking from a faraway parking space.

I hate snow. I turn my face skyward, cursing the clouds, cursing the frigid January weather, cursing Ohio and Mother Nature and my great-grandparents for pointing the car northward after leaving that small Tennessee town, instead of South, as rational people would do.

I hate snow. During all my mental cursing, I drop my gaze again, watching the accumulation, shivering, noticing my chapped hands. I turn my face upwards once more, and suddenly, in the silence, I am hypnotized. White flakes against a velvet sky are at once peaceful, beautiful. Compelling. Caught up in the moment, I step off the porch and begin to twirl.

The years fall away, and I am sixteen, twelve, nine, seven. Snow was a treat, a great white adventure. We were glued to the television, watching school closings at six in the morning (earlier than we had to get up on a regular school day), the anticipation building all through the alphabet until finally, finally: "Madison Local Schools--Closed."

We stayed outside all day back then, my brother and I, coming inside only for hot chocolate breaks when Mom insisted we'd get frostbite or hypothermia if we kept rolling around in the snow. We warmed our gloves, socks, and sweaters by the iron stove, all of them still damp as we rushed back out for more snowmen, more sledding, more snowball fights, more fun.

There was ice one year, instead of snow, and we were delighted to discover we could sled down the small hill by the house all the way past the maple tree, nearly to the creek. Another year, we built a snow cave from what was shoveled from the driveway. It was meant to be an igloo, our stepfather would show us how, but we grew impatient and tunneled in ourselves. Another year (or maybe it was the same year as the almost-igloo), we trekked up to the neighbors' and helped build a snow ramp, where I nearly broke both ankles trying out the snowboard; we were all bruised the next day, but deliriously happy for the moment.

That wasn't out only experience with snow ramps. A few weeks later, we packed our sleds into the van and cruised over to what we simply referred to as "the Church," a small Methodist church perched on top of a substantial hill. This, to our eyes, was a prime sledding spot. Earlier snow enthusiasts had built a small ramp at the bottom, expertly placed so as to hit the ramp when the sled was at its absolute top velocity. The landings were far from gentle, however, and our very terrified mother reined us in after only a few breathtaking runs.

Then, my first year of college, my brother's first year of high school. Again, the anticipation. Madison Local School, yes. Miami University, no. He got sleeping in, sledding, and snow angels; I got defrosting the car, driving twenty miles per hour, and shivering in a classroom. I was not at all amused. Snow was no longer my friend; it had abruptly changed camps with no warning, and left me feeling betrayed, not to mention freezing.

Is that when I abandoned my love affair with snow? Or perhaps it was driving home after work, skidding despite my diligence, a fifteen minute drive stretched to nearly an hour. I tapped my foot impatiently, wanting to go faster, wanting to be warm and safe at home, but afraid of skidding again and ending up in a ditch, or worse.

I don't have time to play in the snow now. I have responsibilities. I have places to be, whether or not there are six inches of snow on the ground. Somewhere between washing the salt off my car, digging a path to the street so I could get out of the driveway, and trudging through unplowed parking lots, I forgot. I forgot the thump of a snowball. I forgot the exhilaration of suddenly being airborne with a plastic sled beneath me. I forgot the surprising warmth of our snow cave, and the delicious taste of hot chocolate on cold lips. I forgot the wonder, the awe, of looking up into a snow-filled sky, and the way snowflakes gently kiss your skin and tickle your eyelashes.

Maybe I will forget again, but on this hushed and lovely night, I dance. I remember. I laugh.

__________________
"...for though she was ordinary, she possessed health, wit, courage, charm, and cheerfulness. But because she was not beautiful, no one ever seemed to notice these other qualities, which is so often the way of the world."


"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"