a bit of rain
a bit of snow
a little wind
a little sun
a splash of heat
a blanket of cold
just another southern Oregon day
Snow Memories
As an adult, snow and I share a difficult relationship. Snow wants to do what it’ll do, and I prefer that it doesn’t disturb my routines. I think these things even knowing that snow is necessary for the snowpack that provides us water throughout the year (so go up in the mountains and snow heavy there, right?) and some of our local industries (like the ski lodge on Mount Ashland) depends on the snow.
But a day of blinding, fat flurries (like today — look out that window — how can you not?) always takes me back to snow memories, especially childish times. When I was a boy in school, seeing snow outside the windows was a harbinger of entertaining times like snowball fights, forts, and sledding. Snow diffused daylight, blending night and day into a special, secret zone of being. Snow muffled the sounds and tamped adult activities, leaving the world to us, the brave, the crazy, the children. Interruptions would arrive – cars stuck on hills, tires spinning in a whining hiss, vehicles with chains clanging past, snowplows grinding by, building new boundaries of small mountains alongside the roads.
Après outings were coming into a warm house where boots, mittens, and layers of frozen soaked clothes were shed. All had to be hung, put onto radiators or into dryers, depending on the era and house. Hot chocolate with marshmallows and cookies were offered, or tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches (white bread and American cheese, in those days) with a dill pickle.
Evening would come with a hesitant stillness, slipping in like it didn’t want to disturb the world. Books were read, drawings were completed, games played, television watched. Popcorn and fudge was made. The television was watched for news — would there be more snow? Will school be cancelled tomorrow? (Fingers crossed, breath held, eyes big as the news was awaited.) And more gazing out the window, at the amazing white world and the wonders of snow, were indulged.
Young and innocent, protected and secure, playful and happy. Everyone should enjoy such a life.
Snowfloof
Snowfloof (floofinition) – 1. Animal who is fond of being in the snow. 2. Snow sculpture of an animal.
In use: “The little princess, Her Most Serene Highness – yes, that’s her acquired name – wasn’t a snowfloof, oh, no, not at all, venturing out once. With each step, she shook her her paws from that disgusting stuff on her tiny paws. Within two feet, she’d realized it was falling from the sky and landing on her, and no amount of licking was resolving the problem. Well, that was it. She bolted right back into the house, cleaned herself off, and glared death at the sky for betraying her with this falling wet stuff and hiding her sunshine.”
New Demands
Pent up by a winter storm, my cats conferred and emerged from their confab with new demands. Each demands that they get at least fifteen hours per day of personalized care and attention. Said personalized care and attention requires me to pet, scratch, caress, play, and feed each one (or allow them to sleep on my lap) for a total of at least fifteen hours per day. They’re calling this the fifteen-hour minimum initiative.
I pointed out to them that the day has only twenty-four hours, that I have other things to do, and there is no way that I can give each one fifteen hours of attention.
They reacted with sad head shakes. Boo, the spokes-cat, said, “Anything is possible, if you set your mind to it.”
They’re boycotting me until I come around, or feeding time, whichever comes first.
Two Out of Three
With snow falling and accumulating, my cats have adopted new rules for deciding whether to go outside.
- Does it look cold?
- Does it feel cold?
- Does it smell cold?
If two of these conditions are met, they don’t go out. Meatloaf was wrong: two out of three is bad.
Pauses
They exchanged greetings, and then comments about their coats, hats, and smiles.
Then they went on, two strangers pausing to chat while they were walking through the falling snow.
An Hour
9:35
The temperature was thirty-five F.
Dazzling sunshine streamed in through the windows.
Plans were made.
9:45
Thick, glistening snowflakes tumbled down. Gaining momentum and volume, they soon curtained the landscape and smothered the ground.
10:15
It looked like a blizzard.
Plans were re-arranged.
10:30
Snow no longer fell.
Dripping sounds from melting snow filled the air.
10:35
Little snow covered the ground. Some still covered roofs.
Light gray clouds swarmed across the sky. Sunshine splashed through.
The temperature was thirty-five F.
Plans were re-arranged.
In My Neck…
In my neck of existence, back when I was a child, snowstorms meant listening to the AM radio to see if school was canceled. Snowstorms meant bundling up to go outside to play in this substance, to sled, build, explore, and experience. The storms meant returning home to hot tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich with a dill pickle, or a cup of hot cocoa.
Snowstorms changed our neighborhood sounds, forcing out the usual ruckus in favor of cars’ soft sibilant hissing, or a spinning whine as tires looked for a bite in the slick mess. Rhythmic chains, clicking studs, and the snowplows’ grinding blades broke the stillness, enhancing the ambiance.
The house was hot and the outside was frigid. Sunshine seemed hidden by infinite layers. Trees were starkly outlined, but cars and houses were buried.
Snowstorms made the day special as routines bent and fractured under the snow’s weight. Now I anticipate the snowstorm for days, hoping it’ll return some of childhood’s joys when the snow closes us in, but the storms rarely stand up to hopes.
At least, in my neck of experience.
Cats Snow
Cats know the snow, and these four aren’t impressed.
Quinn mews at the open door, “I don’t like the snow, please don’t make me go.”
Boo comments from the bed, “I don’t know if it’s snow, but that white stuff really blows.”
Tucker goes, “I know that’s snow, and it’s too cold for my toes.”
While Papi puts his tail down and says, “Snow and I don’t go.”
Winter Has Come
Snow has been sneaking down the surroundings mountains day by day since mid-November. I’ve tracked its progress, glancing up to see peaks and fields sporting new white blankets, setting off the barren brown and evergreens. Last night, under the night shield, the snow advanced to us.
We’re not the valley floor. That’s about two thousand feet further down, but one to three inches at our location is significant for the I-5 corridor. For just fourteen miles from us is the pass. This is where I-5 makes it through the mountain range between northern California and southern Oregon. It’s an impressive climb, in the top ten at least, of climbs I’ve driven, although way down from the scale of those encountered in the Rockies and Alps.
The pass isn’t looking bad this morning. The absent sunshine and temperatures hovering around freezing aren’t good signs for easy commutes but the roads are fairly clear. Just beware of black ice. About as far as I’m commuting is down to the coffee shop, lucky me. I’ll drive down there and then walk around downtown, stimulate the writing juices, and look for The Wall, the men of the Watch and white walkers.
Michael Seidel, writer 