Tag Archives: Essay about winter

Walking in the Snow

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            I was born in Dayton, Ohio. Our first residence was a tiny house that was once owned by Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. Looking back at old photos, I now realize we lived in the “projects.” Every house looked the same. They marched down the street, like soldiers.

            We did have running water and electricity, but the only washing machine was an old-fashioned wringer type. I had to catch the clothes as they emerged, with a caution that I’d lose my hands if I wasn’t careful.

            I was an imaginative child. Every night, I dreamt of a hand being smashed between those rollers.

            Our next house was in a nicer neighborhood. It was two-story, with the upstairs unfinished. At some point my mom let me move upstairs, probably to get away from my younger sister.

            My brother and I often played outside in the snow. We weren’t allowed out of our yard, so our activities were reduced to building snowmen and throwing snowballs.

            Just before my fourth-grade year of school, we moved to Beavercreek, Ohio. It was a large subdivision bordering a forest owned by the Air Force. Nothing could be built there as it was part of the runway.

            The upper part of the subdivision was fairly flat. As the streets headed south and east, hills came into play. Our house sat on one of those hills. The house to our north sat a tad higher than ours, while the one on the south was a bit lower.

            No fences on any of our properties.

            Ohio can be incredibly cold and snowy. One winter it snowed so much that it came up to my ten-year-old knees. Often after a snow, it warms slightly, then chills at night, turning everything to ice.

            My brother got the idea to build an igloo. We thought we knew how to build one as we’d read many stories about indigenous peoples. I wasn’t allowed to use the saw, so he did all the cutting. I was the porter and the builder. He cut a block of ice; I carried it to the site and layered one block on top of another.

            When the wall was too high, he had to finish off the igloo.

            Somehow, we succeeded! There was a hole as a door. The walls curved inward, creating a dome at the top.

            Crawling in was fun, except for when the ice melted. Then our mittens and knees of our pants got soaked. Once inside, though, it was surprisingly warm. We’d pack lunches, crawl through, and no matter the temperature outside, eat in comfort.

            I’d just learned how to read thanks to a children’s librarian who showed me a collection of easy-to-read nonfiction books on Indigenous people. My mom insisted her great-great-great grandmother was “Native.” She claimed her tan skin was evidence, as well as her love of bread and gardening.

            I wanted to know more about that relative, and so read every book the library had. When it wasn’t too cold, I’d take a book into the igloo and spend precious time reading. Alone. Out of the maelstrom of my life.

            The following winter very little snow fell, but thanks to freezing nighttime temperatures, there was plenty of ice.

            My brother and I would pull our sled uphill into the neighbor’s yard. With a good running start, and a timely jump, we’d fly down that hill, sail across our yard, downhill into the next, ending midway into that neighbor’s yard.

            It was great fun. We also never got hurt.

            On our last winter in Beavercreek before moving to California, once again, little snow fell. It was cold, though, so cold that huge icicles hung from our gutters and every powerline. The combined weight of icicles pulled the powerlines down, down, down. We lost electricity several times, the popping and snapping terrifying me. It was not until crews came out and removed the ice that our electricity was returned.

            The wind was fierce. It howled like a banshee, a truly scary sound. We’d huddle inside, not daring to go out in that storm. When morning came, we went outside to discover roof-high piles of snow on the north side of our house.

            Huge icicles hung everywhere. When the sun lit them up, the sparkling light amazed me.

            We broke off the tips from some, licking them as if they were popsicles. They were flavorless, but in our minds, they were as good as the best thing we’d ever had.

            Those were good memories. While I think fondly back on those times, I am grateful to live in the San Francisco Bay Area where it never snows.

Winter Memories

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            My family moved to Beavercreek, Ohio just before the beginning of my fourth-grade year of elementary school. We used to live in the city, but now we were out in the country, far from everything.

            In order to drive my brother and I to school, which was in Dayton, my mother had to learn how to drive. She was a nervous wreck, which I could understand considering my dad’s short fuse. But, she pushed on, despite what I assumed were many terrifying hours in the car, being yelled at by my dad. Eventually she passed the test and got her license.

            My dad purchased a beat-up Ford business coupe for her to drive. It had no back seat, no heat. When it was hot, only the two front windows opened and little air made it back to where we sat atop piles of cushions and blankets. We felt every bump, every pot hole.

            When winter came along, my mom still had to drive us to school, despite roads covered in slippery snow. She must have driven with hands tightly clenched on the steering wheel, hoping not to slide into another vehicle or off the road.

            One plus about where we now lived was that the houses were terraced: The one to our north sat slightly higher than our house, while the one to the south was a short hill below.

            Ohio can be incredibly cold in the winter. I recall one such winter when it snowed so much that our boots sank so deeply through the crust that our knees got soaked.

            The crust froze, making a slick surface perfect for running and sliding downhill. It also seemed perfect for building an igloo.

            My brother used a shovel to chop out blocks of snow. Working together, we piled them on top of each other, one by one, forming an igloo. We were incredibly proud of our accomplishment and could hardly wait to go inside.

            The next morning, before the sun could melt our construction, my brother and I got down on hands and knees and crept through the opening. Our gloves and pants were drenched, but initially we didn’t mind.

            It was quiet inside. Sunlight filtered through the upper blocks, creating a mystical glow reminiscent of fantasy stories my brother had been reading.

            I’d just learned to read (yes, I was slow to catch on), but thanks to a kind librarian who walked me to the nonfiction section where a series of books about Indigenous tribes of North America. I read them all, thanks to the help of black-and-white illustrations, and memorized minute details about their cultures, foods, dress, ceremonies, housing and all tiny details that enriched my understanding.

            One of my favorite books was about the Eskimos, now the Inuit. I was intrigued by the seal-skin clothing they wore, their kayaks, their methods of hunting, and their igloos. I read into the descriptions, imagining families seated on furs, cooking over fires, and huddling together sharing stories.

            As my brother and I sat inside our creation, I spoke of all I’d learned. It was the first time in my life where I knew more than my older brother.

            Some winters were light on snow, but thanks to freezing nighttime temperatures, the yard was quite slippery. While I’d never seen an ice-skating rink except on television, in my mind, our yard was just as slick.

            We had an old Red Flyer sled that someone had given us. Our dad rubbed the rust off the runners until he was sure it would glide smoothly.

            My brother and I would pull the sled up the hill and well into our neighbor’s yard. We’d run together, my brother in the lead, and once we were going pretty fast, he’d jump on, leaving enough space for me behind him.

            On a good day, we’d fly down that hill, sail across our yard, then down the hill into the next. We’d do this over and over until the quality of the snow changed.

            On the last winter before we moved to California, very little snow fell despite it being incredibly cold. When I stood at the bus stop waiting for the school but to arrive, the scarf around my face became encrusted with ice, my fingers and toes burned and I shivered from head to toe.

            One night a brisk wind came up and the temperature dropped drastically. We stayed warm, thanks to many blankets and cups of hot chocolate.

            The next morning, to our surprise, icicles hung from power lines, roofs, and even door handles. Most of them were quite long, perhaps a foot or two, with sharp points. They’d break off with a resounding crack, then fall to the ground where they’d shatter into millions of pieces.

            Even though I was fourteen and supposedly knew better, I was convinced that if one struck the top of my head, it would cleave my skull in half.

            There was one very weird thing about what snow did fall: on the north side of the house it stood higher than the peak of the roof, while on the other side, dirt showed through the sparse cover.

            While I cherish these memories, I am grateful to be living in California, in a part of the state where it doesn’t snow.