A bit of nostalgia, sparked by the recent weather.
When I was little snow days meant waking up to my mom telling me it had snowed and in my sleepy daze, trying to establish if it was April fools day and she was having me on, or if in fact it had snowed. It also meant a day off school along with my brother(s) and probably a few friends who’s parents were at work.
We would wrap up warm with several layers of various clothing. A balaclava no doubt and magic gloves (possibly on elastic threaded through our coats) and we would be sent out in wellies that sometimes weren’t yours, but they fitted so it didn’t matter.
Mom would put carrier bags on our feet so they didn’t get wet when the snow went in your wellies and big thick socks.
We would head down the garden and retrieve the sledge out of the garage that hung from one of the beams on a nail and blue rope for 363 days of the year.
Maybe we would all be bundled in the car to go to a park with big steep slippery slopes that left you breathless with adrenaline and rosey-faced. The anticipation of waiting at the top of the slippery mountain to slide down
is, at that age I’d imagine comparable to a sky dive.
Sometimes we would stay at home instead and play in the snow up and down our road. Building snowmen, snowball fights and digging in the snow, as if it were sand at the beach.
When we were wet enough or cold enough, we would go inside.
We would have hot chocolate or hot tea and cake or crumpets. Our fingers and cheeks would tingle with the warmth of the house.
Wellies would be lined up by the door on newspaper and coats hung over chairs and coat hooks to dry.
Gloves and hats perched on radiators to thaw out, ready for the next round of snowballs.
I remember very fondly, as darkness would fall and it was like my world was soundproofed. The garden was a glow of white and fell almost silent. Any blemishes of the garden or road were covered over with a white blanket. The orange glow from the street lights bouncing off the glittery carpet that now covered our road.
Some of the best times.
I was reminded of these times when walking with the girls through the village the other day after the heavy snowfall. Many children were squealing with delight with pink cheeks. Dad’s were rolling huge balls of snow to make bodies of snowmen whilst trying to stay upright on the already compacted snow.
There were few cars about, which meant people were care free and relished playing in the roads and up and down the pavements.
I walked through the snow covered grass holding the girls tiny, pink, cold hands, gripping mine tightly with caution. The snow coming up past their knees.
The snow fell here all day on Sunday and it looked like magic floating through the air against the street light.
We took it in turns to check if it was still snowing. Each time we checked saying “it’s STILL snowing”, emphasising the word ‘still’ even more every time.
So, it made me think that while there’s many dangers and risks and it’s hardly been enjoyable going to work in it, and I’ve had to ration the milk, the snow brings an element of magic with it in its tiny flakes and it’s enjoyed by so many.
So, until the next time it snows, I’ll keep these memories tucked away.