All through autumn there was little to suggest winter was approaching. 

Now, it’s here.

On the west side of Madison, Wisconsin, we got close to a foot of snow January 9-10. Again, overnight January 10-11, we picked up three inches. On January 12-13, we hunkered down under a howling blizzard that dumped another foot of snow. 

Now the temperatures have dropped below zero.

If we have a mild December, Old Man Winter is apt to unleash his cold fury in January. This is my seventy-ninth winter. One gets to know these things.

Too Much is Enough Already

Some time ago, I lost sight of all the charms of snow. The gobs of white frosting smothering the cake of our landscape, the glitter of a million snow-diamonds in the moonlight, the squeak and crunch of ice-crust beneath your boots, the clean crispness of inhaled frost—all these things were lost on me.

I had shoveled too many tons of the stuff. Dug my car out of too many drifts. Dragged out the jumper cables once too often. Watched it all polluted with carbon granules and the effluvia of wandering dogs.

Now that I’m old and pay a man with a plow to clear my driveway, Nature’s whipped cream is tasty again. Like a retired ski bum, I can wax philosophical.

My backyard has become a thing of beauty. One of the great things about snow is that you don’t have to mow it. 

I did have to unlimber the snow rake and pull a few tons off the roof to reduce the formation of ice dams that might cause leakage. Roof raking ought to be an Olympic sport. All the medals would be taken by beefy Norwegians.

My dog, the ever-adaptible Fooboo, has a high old time playing outdoors in the sub-zero sunshine. We think he is part husky. 

When I was his age, I played in the snow with great vigor. So did all my friends. There was no snow fort we could not build, none we could not assail. If we were feeling physical, we could wash our smaller siblings’ faces, unwillingly, in the snow. And boys bigger than we could do the same to us.

It’s All Downhill from Here

Every hill had sledding potential, but there was one, when I was nine or ten, that was par excellence—the Snake Path. It was not only a steep hill, it was a narrow path that took a tortuous drop through trees and brush, down to the old shale road that led to the river. 

In those days, sleds were steerable, but their steering was gradual. You had two steel runners under you. By pulling hard on the left or right end of a wood crossbar, you could warp the runners slightly to the side, sending you and your sled on a gentle curve down the hill. 

But the curves on the Snake Path were not gentle. They were sudden and heartbreaking. You had to yank the crossbar with all your might and sink a toe off the back runner to bend around the curve. Then you had to do it the other way, more or less instantly.

All this maneuvering was hard on your knit gloves or mittens and on the toes of your four-buckle galoshes. The sudden course changes threw cold snow in your face more or less all the time—but you were expected to take it. You had to run the bends without loss of momentum, so you broke the sound barrier while approaching the final obstacle—an earthen mound that made a perfect mogul or, if you will, a ski jump for sleds. 

Your reward for speed was to fly five or ten feet through space, landing with a big whomp on the old shale road. If, at that moment, you wrenched the crossbar violently and planted your right toe, you could turn ninety degrees and coast down the icy road almost a quarter mile to the litte bridge over the Stink Creek.

Then you would stand up, grab your sled, walk back to the top, and do it all again.

I haven’t had that kind of fun in almost seventy years, nor do I expect to, this side of Eternity. But that’s okay; I had the experience once upon a time. 

In my mind, I am always nine years old.

I hope you’re not much older, Gentle Reader.

Blessings,

Larry F. Sommers

Your New Favorite Writer