Childlike Winter Wonders

The crunch of freshly fallen snow can be heard underfoot as pointed crystals dangle tauntingly out of reach of tiny hands. The frozen icicles were just begging to be licked like a popsicle or used as a makeshift sword to do away with an annoying older brother. The latter would be preferable because I can already hear Mom’s words: “Do not eat the snow!” or “Get that icicle out of your mouth!” Alas, the hope of one falling is slim, but eventually the drowsy sun will peek out from the wispy winter clouds, warming the dry air enough to give the icy stalactites a melting push. One would ultimately come within reach, and a challenge would be made. The intense sibling battle would have to wait for another day.

Snowplows had already come through the empty early morning streets, leaving behind mountainous ice caps to climb and slide down, or, if help can be found, tunnels can be made into a snowy hideout. As I make it to the tippy top of the makeshift mountain—with only a few stumbles and slips—my nose gets the sniffles, making my nostrils feel like they will freeze together. But that is only a mild annoyance when exploring for winter wonderland adventures.

As I scan the dead-end street for any kind of fun to be had, I notice the Ice Age Trail that runs through my neighborhood is still covered in snow. Only a few tracks can be seen, some from early morning explorers, but most from small animals braving the cold in search of scarce winter sustenance. The gentle rush of the river behind my house can be heard, and I already know that the riverbank lining the backyard is covered in a thin layer of ice and snow. Dreams of floating down the river on an ice floe were instantly dashed, as my brother and I were restricted from any attempts to play or skate on the river ice—the burden of parental rules. I, however, was more compliant than my brother only because I had watched a friend fall through the ice a previous winter. The thought of frigid water soaking into my clothes gave me an internal shiver as the image of a human popsicle floating through the water ran through my mind.

The boisterous call of my brother and some neighborhood friends grabbed my attention, and I slid down the crumbling mountain to join in the fun. Being the youngest and the only girl in a group of rowdy boys, a whitewash was inevitable. The biting cold took my breath away and numbed my face. My face reddened with frustration and the icy heat. I swore a silent oath of vengeance when my brother was least expecting it. The duel would come in one form or another; my hope was that I would be the victor.

After the teasing and some careful deliberation, we took on the challenge to make the biggest snowman that was ever created. Splitting off into groups, we all had our designated portion of the snowman to make and the entire block to work with. The process started off easy; a small snowball eventually turned into a densely packed boulder with random leaves and sticks poking out as the wet and heavy snow clung to the ever-growing body of the snowman. Once all three pieces were ready, we realized that our ambitions exceeded our abilities and had to recruit help from an adult to stack the pieces together.

When the giant snowballs were stacked and carefully stabilized with added snow, it was time for the finishing touches. A couple of sticks from the massive tree just before the trail’s bridge—it swayed and creaked with the slightest of wind, reminding me of an old burly mountain man, stout in appearance but old and rickety, nonetheless. I was proud of one of the branches because it looked like a perfect snowman hand, with three thinly knotted fingers spread out like it was waving hello. The other stick was lacking in comparison, with a missing finger and easily crumbled if handled too roughly, but it would still do the trick.

My brother found a handful of rocks that he chipped away from the frozen ground by the riverbank. He had to get the job done quickly because if our mother found him by the river, he would get the stare of death from her, or worse. His gloveless fingers were frozen and red, but the rocks would be perfect for the snowman’s eyes, mouth, and buttons, even if they varied in shape, size, and colors. One of the neighborhood boys contributed a bright orange carrot for the snowman’s nose, and an extra winter hat rendering the massive snowman almost perfect.

The final touch was the scarf that I took from around my neck. The cold winter wind sent chills down my body as it caressed my exposed skin. After the scarf was in place, to which an adult had to pick me up to get the scarf around the snowman’s neck, the neighborhood children took a step back and looked up in awe of our precious winter creation. To me, it was the biggest and greatest snowman ever created, and I happily hummed the familiar children’s tune, Frosty the Snowman, as we readied ourselves for the next snowy adventure.

As the years continued, and the older I’ve gotten, the more those childlike adventures became a thing of the past, and the adult in me started to appreciate the silent beauty of winter. The winter adventures have now turned into a quiet day, snuggled inside the house. The contented warmth of watching the snow fall from the comforts of your home, now with a steaming cup of coffee instead of hot cocoa in hand, is something I’ve grown to love.

The fat, powdery snowflakes gingerly falling from the clouds make the quiet streets look like a real-life Thomas Kinkade painting. It’s like the world is on pause and everyone and every animal is nestled in their homes, savoring this moment of tranquility. And savoring these moments, I shall. For when the world decides to venture out of the warmth and comfort of their homes, and the angelic white of freshly fallen snow turns gray and dingy with dirt and tracks, this winter contentment turns into adulthood worries.

The mental checklist keeps piling up in my head, and my back is already aching from shoveling that will have to be done—someday that task can be passed down to my son when he’s older, and it can’t come soon enough. Long days of little sun and chilling temperatures make it harder to be outside, and cabin fever eventually sets in for both parents and children alike. Scraping off the ice and snow from the cars and braving precarious driving conditions hidden under the innocent-looking snow causes numb appendages and anxiety. Snow days and the scramble to find daycare. Wet and dirty tracks that make you jump with surprise when your warm socks soak up the frigid water. Missing mittens. Now, where is his other boot?

The list goes on and on…

Even with all these winter inevitabilities, these short moments of wonder and awe all but make up for it. Like the drive to work, when the slumbering trees are sparkling in the early morning sun as if the heavens sprinkled a dusting of glitter on the Earth. The once hidden pond across the farmer’s field now visible through naked trees brings envious thoughts of wanting to pull over and penguin slide across the frozen water.

These feelings of elation and nostalgia take me back to the days when the snow was up to my knees rather than my ankles. The excitement of winter activities and the cold didn’t bother me so much because I knew there was going to be a steamy cup of chocolatey goodness with miniature marshmallows floating on top—snowman poop, as my mom would say.

Nostalgia quickly turns to shock as the sudden smack of snow hits my back and snowy shrapnel falls down my neck. The mischievous laughter of both husband and son can be heard as I turn to stare daggers at the culprits, but I couldn’t help but join in the merriment and pack my own snowball in retaliation. Eyes targeting the little boy with a mouth full of white powder.

“Stop eating the snow, or this one’s for you!”