I was surprised to hear about regions that had received an early snowfall. I didn’t personally see it in my area but I thought it would be appropriate to resurrect a piece from my previous blog, My Punchline. It also was brought to mind after my recent post about Landscapes and remembering how it was.

Since I was young, I have always enjoyed hearing stories of how it “used to be”. A picture painted with words and a faraway look could transport me. Very often I found myself wishing I had experienced it firsthand. It never occurred to me that one day, I too, would have stories of how life “used to be”.

The recent mammoth storm created a beautiful landscape blanketed with deep snow and drifts. It also created the challenge of how to dig out and where to put the excess snow. I found that current conversations often mentioned how there appeared to be a lack of willing youth to assist with snow removal. We lamented that there were no children lugging shovels up and down the street offering to lighten the load. That’s not how we remembered our childhood. We would be shoveling not because it was expected but more importantly, it was the right thing to do. If a couple of dollars made their way to your pocket there was cause for celebration.

Although the current blizzard-like conditions should have brought a chill, I found that I was warmed by memories of those snow storms of long ago. In what seemed like an eternity, we would layer ourselves to protect from the cold. Gathering at the end of the Harshman’s yard we would prepare for some serious sledding. The Harshmans were an elderly couple and to my knowledge they had no children but that changed after each snowfall as every child in the neighborhood would find their way to that backyard.  It was elevated just enough, with a long and open stretch that would allow our gliders to fly. Within time there would be a mound constructed in the middle of a path to add lift and excitement to our travel downhill. Our enthusiasm was only tempered by the elements finding their way through our best attempt to keep them at bay by our winter outerwear.

Trudging home, dragging our sleds behind us, we knew that soon warmth would greet us. I felt betrayed when the sleeves of my coat would shift upward and no longer meet the edge of my gloves. The sting of snow on the exposed skin of my wrists would make me long for our toasty kitchen, warmed by a large pot belly cast iron stove. It sat in an alcove, fired up during the winter season, beckoning to us after our outside adventures. We would pull the crunchy remnants of snow from our outerwear and toss it on the stove. Those little crystals would dance and sizzle on the hot griddle until they disappeared as little wisps of steam. 

Nightfall did not exclude the presence of snowfall. My bedroom was located at the front of the house, facing the street. Enveloped in darkness, under a pile of blankets, I would be lulled to sleep by the sound of vehicles, their tires wrapped in chains, traversing the ever deepening snow. The scrape of a plow would often interrupt the stillness of the night. My father worked second shift and would travel four miles to return home nightly after midnight. Long before the Sheetz and traffic light occupied the corner, a plain intersection was part of the setting. Once home it would not be uncommon for my father to take a shovel, walk down to the intersection and assist his coworkers who had the misfortune to become stuck in a deeply covered area. The snow fence was not always successful in keeping the drifts from hampering travel. The fence, comprised of slats and wire, would run parralell to the road and could be used as a barometer as to the severity of the storm.

The memories are as clear in my mind as they were fifty years ago. Half a century has passed and life has changed. The pot belly stove was removed when my father renovated the kitchen. The alcove had become a walk-in pantry for my mother and the stove became a source of heat in a chicken coop my father converted into his workshop. The home no longer belongs to our family and the workshop no longer stands. Yet the recollection of the past is as much a part of me as my present being, usually bringing smiles but sometimes eliciting tears. Now, with the passage of time, I find I derive great pleasure of painting pictures with words and sharing how it “used to be”.