My Winter of Content

As a kid, I loved winter in New England. There was always so much fun to be had outdoors. My dad used to take us ice skating on cranberry bogs rather than ponds. He said it was much safer and there was no chance he would lose one of his brood through the ice. We were a family of ten children. Dad normally got at least four of us out of the house for activities to give mom a break. Although, her break usually included staying home with the two in diapers at the time. I must admit, I loved skating as a child. It was safe on the bogs but still hard on our knees. We had a knack for getting tripped up on those tiny cranberry twigs that used to stick up through the ice. I remember learning out to ice skate with those little white skates with the double blades. Dad would lasso us around the waist with our scarves and pull us along as he skated backwards. It was great, unless he went down first. Once that happened, we became ammunition and the scarf became a slingshot. Nothing like being propelled through the air and landing head first in a crusty snow bank! Eventually, we learned to decline dad's offer of help.

Another one of our favorite winter activities was sledding. We didn't just sled down gentle slopes either. We went sledding with dad. Dad was an avid golfer in the summertime and knew where the golf courses were in our area. The New Bedford Golf Course was where dad normally took us sledding. It was a popular location. Our snowsuits were elbow to elbow with other sledders. We would all line up on the top of a big hill with our wooden sleds with the metal runners. It would worry me now and then when I saw a patch of white snow riddled with droplets of blood. Nothing like getting run over with a newly sanded and waxed sled. I opted for the big, round plastic saucer sled. The only drawback was the inability to steer the thing. On one occasion I careened off a hill and sailed through the air like Amelia Earhart, only to crash land in a stone wall. I wonder if that's what happened to her? At least dad found me! After about five minutes of searching he came running down the hill and climbed over the stone wall to put me back together. He kept apologizing as he pulled my hat back over my head and searched for my missing mitten and boot. Dumping the snow out of the boot he babbled, "gees, I didn't know there was a wall down here, are you alright, don't tell your mother, it would upset her and we're okay, right"? As he pulled me back up the hill I remember the urge to cry but stifling it because I thought my dad seemed more scared than I was. More scared of my mother! I filed that in my memory banks for future use. On a separate outing and different hill, (there were so many at the golf course) I delighted in making it all the way to the bottom of the biggest slope. My delight was short lived. The minute I got off my sled another sledder cut me off at the ankles. It was my first successful back flip and would have been fantastic had it been over water and not hard packed snow. My head felt like it was going to explode and I understood finally what the phrase, "I saw stars" meant. This time dad had no knowledge of my plight. I got myself up off the ground and out of the way as fast as I could. I don't think I approached that big hill again for another two years after that.

By the time I was a teenager our family would spend long weekends in New Hampshire at a chalet. There were a number of us that enjoyed skiing. Especially my brothers. When I was sixteen years old I decided to try skiing. My parents took the smaller kids to a different mountain. Happy to be numbered among the big kids at long last. I went to a big mountain with my brothers. Not knowing any better, I borrowed someones boots and rented the skis. I took a quickie lesson and found myself on a ski lift in a matter of thirty minutes. Thirty minutes after that, I was being whisked down the mountain by the ski patrol because I had broken my leg. They called it a boot break at the hospital. Typically the leg fractures when a person falls if the boot does not release from the ski's. That happens when a dumb teenager sticks her feet in boots that are not compatible with the skis. I never tried skiing again. Especially, when I was met at the hospital by my dad, who informed me that my mom was coming in with my baby brother who also may have broken something. It turned out that he pulled tendons on the bunny slope. We both went home in casts.

I grew very discontented with winter after that. I decided I was not cut out for winter sports. My feet grew too cold for skating. Sledding was for little kids. Skiing was dangerous. Just walking around in cold weather was not fun. The following year I was a senior in high school. It was 1978 and although I didn't like winter I was excited because I enrolled in driving school. I couldn't wait to drive. I kept thinking how winter would be so much less boring if I had a license. There were malls to shop at and movies to see. I would be free to travel on four wheels. No more double blade skates, metal runners or waxed wooden rails. Then, the blizzard of '78 happened. I was forced to take driving lessons right after that blizzard hit. My classroom hours were over and I could not avoid the road lessons. I remember the instructor telling me, "it's fine, just make sure you keep your tires in those ruts in the snow and you'll be alright"! I was terrified. Four wheels, ruts in the road and mounds of snow that I just couldn't see around at the end of every road. Learning to drive had seemed fun but had turned out more dangerous than any previous, catastrophic snow adventure I had ever experienced. I white knuckled my way through the aftermath of that blizzard, in the drivers ed vehicle. By the grace of God I got my license but I didn't enjoy it. New England had cast a dark wintry shadow on the launching of my driving career. I remained very nervous to in successive winters. By eighteen I had decided that I hated winter. It was official.

A year later, I got married in December. My husband thought it would be nice to get married in the same month that his parents did. I didn't share my loathing for winter with him. I was young and in love. The wedding was beautiful and the day itself was remarkably warm. I loved it. Four months later we discovered we were pregnant. I was due in January. Another positive experience to add to the winter doldrums that I had gotten used to. I had thought that driving in the ice and snow was dangerous. By the time I was big and pregnant just walking on it was treacherous. I found myself housebound and lonely for the last few weeks of my pregnancy. We lived on the third floor in an apartment and ice was all around me. I felt like a fat Rapunzel whose knight had already come but was mostly absent due to work. Getting the baby out had become my focus and ticket to freedom. I loved being pregnant but hated pregnancy in the winter. On January 25, 1981 my first son was born. He was healthy and beautiful. Of course, it snowed the day we brought him home but I didn't care because my husband drove us safely home.

Once I started feeling better after the birth I really wanted to get out of the house. We only had one car and I didn't want to drive my infant around in the snow anyway. I was left with only one option. My sister had given me a nice big baby buggy. It was one of those old fashioned baby carriages that looked like a bassinet on wheels. I bundled my son and myself up and nestled him in the buggy. I started to take long walks with him that first winter of my motherhood. It did us both good to get out and get fresh air. I looked forward to our walks. The snow started to look pretty to me again. Walking through the park, I noticed the beauty of it. Looking down at my son I would think of all the things we could do together in the winter as he grew. Thoughts of cranberry bogs and golf courses came rushing back. Bundling him up in his snowsuit the following year and dragging him through his first snowstorm in a plastic sled was so much fun. Watching him try to catch snowflakes on his tongue was magical. Seeing New England's wonderland through my baby's eyes had mended my broken relationship with winter. Winter won me over again. My son and I took baby steps together. A small snowman here. Some sledding on gentle slopes there. By the time he had a sibling, winter and I were friends again. I enjoyed watching my kids have fun in the snow. I looked forward to it's coming and anticipated it's leaving.

Winter became more like an old friend. It would politely leave when cabin fever threatened to drive us all crazy. I eventually learned to drive confidently in whatever it chose to dump on me. I may still draw the line at skiing but I do enjoy a good trudge around the yard with the grand babies. Snow angels have reappeared in our yard. Some are in the snow and some are wearing snowsuits. They are the children of my firstborn. The son that helped bring me and winter back together again, thirty years ago. My grandchildren came just in the nick of time, to keep the love light glowing between us. We've had a rocky relationship, winter and me. I'm just glad we made it through the tough times. I never did like the idea of becoming a snow bird and flying to Florida each October. I never wanted to let winter push me that far away from my loved ones. I may layer more now, than I used to but that's okay. I'm not going anywhere. I've got my feet planted firmly in my L.L. Bean boots on a snowbank in New England. Snowflakes may be falling but as long as thier landing on the eyelashes of my snow babies, winter and me will continue to get along fine.