Winter Thoughts

January

That time of the year seems endless.  By the age of five, I was already walking around like I was eighty years old, bent over and mumbling, “Please, Lord, let me live to see spring again.” 

By the time I was old enough to learn about the ice age in school, it was old news to me.  I lived through an ice age each year.  Glacier?  Try navigating around the shit-berg of manure that had fallen off the spreader and frozen in place. 

There is a statement that Eskimos have thousands of words to describe snow.  Mom only had one noun for snow, and the adjective varied only by the heights of the drifts.

“Looks like we're getting more of this shit today.”

“Looks like this white shit ain’t gonna stop.”

“If this God almighty damned shit doesn’t stop, we won’t dig out until July!”

By mid-January: “If I see one more fucking flake of this fucking white shit, I am gonna lose it!”

Of course, we had months of snow left, so if Mom lost “it”, I never noticed, or she had already lost “it” long before I was born.

Mom hated snow, but ice was the villain for the men of the family.  For some reason, Dad and Tubby could not remain upright on ice.  It may have had something to do with Dad’s choice of always buying the pretty white house on the hill. 

“Isn’t that a pretty place, Ma?  Look at all the lilac bushes.”

Soon turned into, “I slid right out of the outhouse and was headed downhill until I landed in your damn lilac bushes.  Scratched the hell out of my face.  Good thing they were there, I woulda still been sliding.”

One year during the energy crisis of the seventies, President Nixon declared that we would not follow our usual fall-back daylight savings time routine. How was that going to save energy? It seemed like cutting off the bottom half of the blanket and sewing it on the top to make it longer.

It was memorable for me because I got a flashlight to carry while waiting for the bus at the end of the driveway.  The president’s declaration didn’t last long; too many school children were injured trying to get to school in the dark.

It was Dad who made President Nixon’s decree truly memorable to the entire family.  Or as Mom would later tell it:

                “I was watching your dad out the kitchen window when he going to the milkhouse after you left for school.  The yard light gleamed off the ice, brightening it up all shiny and smooth.  He had a coffee can of salt, and he was sprinkling it in front of him.  Bent over, his ass in the air, taking a little handful and sprinkling, sprinkling, then step, step.  He got to the side of the hill on the driveway and did his sprinkle, sprinkle, and took a step.  His foot slid right out from under him. His can of salt went flying!

He stood there on one leg, flapping his arms like he was trying to fly.  Looked like a big old fat goose trying to catch enough wind to get up.  Then his other leg gave out.  He landed on his ass and started sliding down the hill.  Funniest damn thing I ever saw.  He was grabbing at the ice and snow, but nothing stopped him until he hit the bottom. It took him a long time to crawl back up until he got on his feet.  He left his salt can lying there and came stomping into the house.  ‘Ma!’ He yelled at me, ‘Get that son of a bitch Nixon on the goddamn phone right now!’ like they are gonna answer my call!”

The hill claimed a man each year.  One year, it was Tubby, halfway up the hill with a bale of hay in each hand and headed for the calf barn.  Mom and I were behind him, each with our own bales.  Mom and I were moving slowly, making sure of our grip before taking the next step.  Tubby was ahead of us, confidently striding on the ice.  Suddenly, Mom and I heard a scream and saw Tubby twirling haybales into the air on each side.  He dropped backwards, his feet at one point above his head, and landed flat and sprawled out on the ice. He looked like a squashed spider in a winter coat. The haybales seemed to linger midair and then collapsed beside his body.

Slowly, Mom and I made our way to where he lay on his back. 

                “You okay?” Mom asked.

                “No!  I was gripping the frozen hunks of goose shit with my toes, and the bastards ran out of shit halfway up the hill!”

Dad and Tubby were the usual ice-and-hill victims, providing entertainment for Mom, Cathy, and me.  But I was not always immune to the hill in January. One day, Tubby and Cathy were driving me somewhere, and they climbed into Tubby’s pickup and waited for me. 

Knowing my free ride was waiting and would not wait for long, I rushed to get into the truck.  As I stepped one foot onto the floorboard, my right leg slid out from under me, and the momentum flung my body backward.  I kept moving, thanks to some stupid Newton’s law, and slid completely underneath the pickup.  The last thing I saw was Cathy’s blue eyes widened in surprise.  I barely had time to yell before my back slammed onto the frozen ground and slipped under the wheels.

                “Hurry up, we don’t have all damn day,” Tubby announced as I wiggled backwards from underneath the vehicle.

                “I fell.”

I felt compelled to explain my tardiness, though my entire body was covered in snow; the shriek of surprise and the sound of my body hitting the ice were apparently not enough.

The only one who never fell on the ice was Mom.  Maybe she did, but she had the foresight and dignity not to be witnessed.  At 95 pounds, always wearing an old pair of Dad’s winter boots three sizes too big for her and moving constantly, I can’t imagine she would have enough traction from weight to keep herself upright. 

I think that when Mom started to fall, she was fortunate enough to catch a gentle gust of wind that held her and eased her back upright.  Even Mother Nature knew not to mess with Mom.