Snow story

By Christine Tailer
HCP columnist

I got out of bed and looked out the window at the whiteness beyond. It had gathered overnight, piling up on the tree branches and covering the ground. No blades of green were anywhere to be seen.

I opened the back door to let the dog out. She looked up at me as if to say, "You're kidding," but she tentatively went out, high-stepping through the white.

I crossed the cabin to look out the front window. Her puppy dog memory must have kicked in, for there she was, running in wild circles, scooping up snow with her tongue, bulldozing, skidding and spinning in the season's first snow dance. All by herself, she danced. I watched from the window, wondering how long she would stay outside. I turned to put on the coffee, and then went back over to the window. She still danced. I set the breakfast table and looked again. She had slowed and was leisurely making her way to the back door.

Once inside, she lapped up some fresh water, leaned hard into my kegs for a hug, and then settled in on the back of the couch, her chin resting in the windowsill so she could look outside and keep watch over the whiteness.

As I filled our coffee cups and set breakfast on the table, I wondered about my first snow memory, perhaps 65 years or so ago. I was a child. My little brother was barely a toddler.

It had snowed during the night. I was amazed at the white that covered the city outside our windows. My parents could barely pry me away to sit at the table and eat my breakfast, but I was a well behaved child and did as I was told. As my mother cleared the dishes, my father told me to take off my shoes and socks. Well behaved child that I was, I obliged. He bent down and removed his shoes and socks as well.

"Peter!" my mother exclaimed, "What on earth are are you doing?"

He smiled at her, but said not a word. He stood and took me by the hand and led me out the front door. We had not even stopped to put on our winter coats. I remember the icy chill on the soles of my feet as I walked down the front steps beside him. When we reached the sidewalk, he let go of my hand and said "Let's run" and run we did, across the snow-covered street and into the park on the far side.

I remember running on my toes, my feet flying. My father kept pace beside me. I was amazed at how fast I was able to run, all the way around the park's circle and finally back across the street, up the front steps, and through the front door.

My mother was waiting. "Peter," she exclaimed, "What in the world have you done?" She handed him a towel, shaking her head solemnly. She then bent down to vigorously rub my icy feet with another towel.

"Did you see how fast I ran?" I asked her as I held onto her shoulder.

She smiled, "Yes, I did. Now put on this sweater and come back to the kitchen. I'll put some cinnamon milk on the stove." She wrapped a blanket over my lap as I sat at the table. The warm scent of the cinnamon soon milk filled the air. I'm certain that was the best cup of warmth I've ever tasted.

The day still lay ahead of us. My mother would do her housekeeping and look after my little brother. My father would tend to our old brownstone and then head off law school, dropping me off at kindergarten on his way. I loved going to school, perhaps because my father and I headed off to school together, but on this day, I learned two things far more important than my kindergarten letters or numbers.

From my father, I learned the lesson that snow is cold, and that even though it might be a good idea to wear shoes when venturing outside on a snowy, if you do happen to be barefoot, the faster you run, the less your feet will touch down and you can just about fly over the chill. From my mother, I learned that a warm cup of cinnamon milk could hold all of her smiling love.

Christine Tailer is an attorney and former city dweller who moved several years ago, with her husband, Greg, to an off-grid farm in south-central Ohio. Visit them on the web at straightcreekvalleyfarm.com.

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