In Memory of Snow

In Memory of Snow

 by Brigid O’Kane

It was early January, and I was looking for my escape. I was living in Michigan with my parents and eight siblings. I’m not entirely sure how my parents survived all nine of us. It was hard to imagine how busy they were while trying to raise us in such a way that we all grew up as good citizens, or as they would say ‘contributors to society.’ How hard it must have been for them to find time for themselves. Our home on East Saint Clair was lively. For me, it was hard to find quiet time or moments when we could be alone. My Dad used to say, “Everyone needs their 40-days and 40-nights” which means everyone needs time alone. A period of time when things were quiet. An interval to create a space where we could see what needed to be seen, to hear what needed to be heard. 

The old house we lived in was positioned at the top of a subtle rise on three quarters of an acre of land that slowly declined towards the woods. Beyond the chain linked fence, the ground continued its descent to five-acres of woodland life. The great groves, fields, meadows, and streams connected to others. These woods were my escape.

Journeying past the mill run led you into the thicket. The paths would branch off, leading to other adventures. If you followed the creek it would take you to the park near the local store. A left at the oak tree would send you over to the apple orchard. A right at the twin trees with a base covered in soft spongy moss would take you to the meadow where the thistle grew in dense clusters. This was a place to avoid after a rain, but on a sunny day in spring it was a patchwork quilt of layered flowers sewn together in patterns of dappled tints and shades of color. Invisible swells of fragrant sweet aromas would drift in open air. Mother Nature carefully folded, composed, and stitched them together with love. She amalgamated the edges of life, in all of its wondrous forms. Her magic was evident in all parts of the woods, no matter what season, no matter the time of day or night. All you had to do was look and then allow the enchantment to dance within you. 

The woodlands of my childhood went on and on. I did not know it then, how much these woods would mean to me in my later years in life. The day would come when I would feel more closely connected to memories of thistle and trees as an adult, more so than when I was a child. But there were many changes I would have to endure before arriving at this realization.

The sky was grey and cold as I ran from the back deck across the expanse of the backyard. The heavy grass was moist, but the edges of each blade were beginning to freeze. Through my socks I felt the subtle crusty crunching of little bits of ice crushing beneath my boots. 

Today was the first snow of winter. The snowflakes were clinging to one another in large chunky masses. Heavy and falling fast, they crashed to the ground splintering into the crevices amongst the green masses of grass. The ground wasn’t cold enough to hold snow, but heavy chunks of slushy snowflakes dropping from the sky was a clear sign that snow would soon cover the landscape. The ‘Winter Wonder Land’ was about to arrive and I had a special place in mind to greet it. 

In my child brain the words ‘escape’ and ‘landscape’ were, aside from a few insignificant letters, identical. I was nine-years old and to me e-scape and land-scape both meant the same thing, the woods. As I made my way across the stillness of the yard the familiar trees before me emerged from the veiling snowfall. This was my escape. 

One particular tree stood out at the edge of the woods. ‘The Willow’ was truly an exceptional being. My brothers, sisters and I knew this tree well. When referring this particular tree, no explanation was needed. 

Sheltered behind her canopy of sweeping light grey willow branches lie her gnarly trunk that was darkened from the wet snow. Her light green leaves that turn yellow in autumn had fallen and now blanketed the ground in shades of brown. Thin branches overlapped into geometric patterns reminiscent of arching cathedrals within the caverns of sacred spaces. 

I pushed aside the hanging willow branches listening to the gentle sound of frozen sticks brushing up against one another. Entering the shelter of the tree I looked around. A swing hung like a motionless sculpture by a single rope. It was manufactured from red plastic that had faded over the years. The silence that had settled in the woods held a soundless tranquility. The trees were standing in silent unity.

I approached the tree trunk and opened my arms, pressing my little body against the hard, rough bark. While in this embrace, I turned my ear to lay it flat on the bark and listened for woodpeckers and squirrels. Sounds from pecking critters in the treetop can travel through the entire trunk. Of course, you can hear these sounds if you stand within ear shot. But hearing these vibrations through the tree sparks a sense of wonder. Today it was quiet. I was climbing alone. 

Standing at the base of The Willow I inhaled the wintry air. I gazed upward and imagined that the weighty clumps of snow falling on her branches must have tickled. Inspecting the ground, I saw roots that traveled along the ground then disappear into the wet Earth. I would often think about where these roots rested. I wondered how deep they went, how far they journeyed. I thought of what it must be like for roots to stretch and search in the dark as they grew.  

As a child I always thought of trees as being people. Most of the trees in the woods I didn’t know well. However, The Willow and I were close, we had a quiet understanding. Often, I imagined that we talked to each other. She received my quiet thoughts and I could hear her quiet sounds. It was a language beyond the spoken word. 

I slowly stepped back observing her branches with curiosity. I knew the path up, but the first branch was difficult. Lucky for me there was a large root below the lowest branch, and this was my way up. 

As I climbed, I carefully grabbed each branch to steady myself before stepping up. The branches were close enough together to make the climb possible with only a few scary spots. Eventually, I made my way to my favorite perch, a branch big enough to comfortably sit on. It gracefully transitioned from trunk to branch forming a strong section of about ten-inches in diameter mid-way up the tree. From here I had a spacious view of the woods slopping down the hill before me. With my back leaned up against the tree and my boots dangling below I wasn’t exactly comfortable, but comfortable enough. From my roost I watched the snow fall with quiet anticipation. 

Within twenty-feet of the base of The Willow was the start of the sled run. Winter lasted from months and sledding occupied a great deal of our days and evenings. The sleds varied in size and most times we went down the run one at a time. If the sled was big enough to hold two people, the driver would sit upright and steer with their feet. When starting off the person on the back would run as fast as possible while pushing the sled, then quickly jump on while at the same time giving one last boost momentum to the sled. Down the hill we would fly. 

Smaller sleds were designed for one person. A preferred technique for starting down the hill was to run while holding the sled, then jumping on sled at the last minute. Lying on your stomach you could steer with mitten covered hands as you raced forward. Your exposed face met the rush of cold air. When lying down you could feel your body streamline with the sled, feeling every rise and pull in the run. The additional thrill of being close to the ground would give you a gusty rush of excitement. No matter how many people were on the sled or what position was taken, as soon as you felt the sled quickening down the first hill, we would all simultaneously feel the charge. 

After leaving the gate the sled would hurry over the irregular swells in the hill side. The first major turn was a quick left. If you missed this turn you could find yourself in a field of picker bushes which, for a small stretch, lined the right side of the sled run. Deviate to the other side of the run and suddenly you were abruptly stopped by any number of giant trees. For hours and hours, day and night, we would be sledding in never-ending cycles of elapsed time. Night sledding added a special thrill. When evening would fall the snow-covered run was still visible, especially by moonlight.

Dogfights were common. We would divide into teams and resolve our starting positions. This sport consisted of two sleds and four people. We would switch positions after each run. Starting on the left side of the track meant that you were on the inside of the first left turn. This was a clear advantage. During a dogfight there was strength and skill needed in getting the sled beyond this first bend. If, when veering close to the other sled you could run your opponent off that path. But the person on the back of the sled needed to be watched closely. One successful grab and yank of the other team’s sled blade would cause them to flip. This maneuver was really only defensible by the other person on the back. 

One evening darkness fell. The white snow turned into tints of blue as a luminous moon lit the woods. Under The Willow we teamed up and I was pared with my younger brother Sean. He was athletic and fast even though he was at that time smaller than I. Sean’s other strength was that he was clever. When his cunning senses aligned with his speed and coordination he could, out of the blue, pull off something unpredictable, leaving you with a cocked head wondering how the heck he did it. Moments like this were impressive. 

Sean and I were on the right side of the run. We decided that Sean would be the driver and I was on the back. Sitting upright, he locked his heals onto the sled’s steering handles as he gripped the rope near his chest. The other team readied themselves. I stood still with my hands on Sean’s shoulders, which was a clear indicating that we were ready to go. By way of some nonverbal agreement, the four of us began the count down. On the count of 3 the two teams were off. 

For my part, I always gave my greatest efforts to run as fast as I could for the push off. At the crest of the hill I leapt onto the sled slamming my body as hard as I could into Sean’s back giving us one final boost for velocity. As we sped down the hill side-by-side the sleds smacked into each other. Our opponents were playing it very close. 

I reached for their back blade but couldn’t get a grip. Smack. I reached again but was blocked. With the first turn approaching fast I quickly realized the track before us was about to end. The other sled was so close we didn’t have enough track before us to make the turn. They were pushing us to the outside of the turn, and we were heading towards the picker patch. 

I admit, jumping off was not in the best interest of my teammate. It was, in fact, one of the worst things I could do to him in that moment. There was no way I could save us both from the sharp ripping pickers, but I could save myself. Without time to calculate my actions I intuitively leapt from the sled. As I jumped, I felt the extra thrust of speed I gave to the sled which added more momentum to the racing sled propelling Sean faster and further ahead. 

As I hit the ground, I twisted my body around to watch the sled. Lying in the snow I listened for Sean’s screams, but all I heard was the slick graceful sound of the sled’s blades cutting through the untouched snow. Eventually, the sled came to a halt. In the midst of the thicket Sean was entombed in the gnarly thatch of brush. He was unable to move. “Brigid!” he yelled.

I sat there in the snow looking through the darkness. My eyes followed the tracks in the snow. Sean traveled so deep into the brush that I could hardly see him. The other team showed up looking concerned, wondering what had happened. Their excited expressions revealed that they apparently had a good ride. 

“Brigid!” came Sean’s voice again. We all stood there looking into the brush, glancing at each other, trying to piece together what had just happened. Then it came. We all burst out laughing at the hilariousness of Sean’s predicament Everyone was belly laughing, including Sean. I chuckled to myself as I crawled through the fresh snow until I reached the buried sled. Grabbing the blade, I began making one backward heave after another as I dragged Sean into the clear. The other team watched while yelling out teasing jokes. 

Once Sean was in the open, we got the whole story from his perspective. When I jumped off the sled Sean had sufficient space behind him to lean back flat on his back. In one swift movement he laid down and straightened his legs out in front of him. In this position he used his boots to shield himself from the arching pickers. In the end, we all agreed that this was an excellent strategy for surviving the picker patch. 

After many dogfights and runs down the hill we would make our way towards the warmth of the house. Weary from the long day of sledding I would give a backwards glance to The Willow saying goodnight. Receiving her message of farewell, I would feel my heart lift. With the sled dragging behind I walked toward the back deck knowing I would be back tomorrow.

Sledding was one of many wintery activities available to us. On a few occasions we built large igloos. Just the right kind of packing snow was needed to achieve this. It also had to be very cold for the igloo to hold its form. These shelters were solid enough for three kids and one German Shepard named Paint to sit on top of it without caving in. At night we would pour water over the top of the structure. In the morning it was solid ice. 

Throughout the season we built snow walls and forts for shelter during snowball fights with the other kids in the neighborhood. We would build ice skating rinks by building foot high snow walls and filling the rectangular space between with water. When the water froze all the neighborhood kids would show up. If they didn’t have ice skates, we shared. 

Most kids complained about having to shovel snow, but I enjoyed this. I even liked shoveling the driveway while it was snowing because the pavement would quickly cover with a light snow making it slick to skid and slide on down the hill in my boots. 

On dark nights when the snowfall was dense and it was light enough to see the falling snow, we would stand still and look upward. In these rare moments we could imagine that we were flying through the snow into the black abys ahead. If you held this position long enough you could trick your mind into believing you were really flying. It was possible to momentarily capture the sensation of quietly souring through the air. Pretending to be a gliding bird on a night flight or a rocket ship blasting through space debris added an edge of quiet bewilderment .

The Willow was witness to all of this. Quietly, she watched over us as we played. Winter after winter, her branches swayed as we played. Her roots laid within the frozen dirt beneath our stomping grounds and I was very aware of them. Could she feel our footsteps? She was always there and because of this she was part of our scene, part of our play. 

On nights when the moon was bright, her branches took on different qualities. I would position myself on the ground below The Willow so that the moon was behind her. From this view the sharp silhouettes of her curved limbs were very black against the brightly lit night sky. The edges of her profile were crisp in the light of a foggy moon. I would imagine that the moon was caught in The Willow’s branches or laying in her out-stretched arms as she cradled it. I would call this child ‘baby-moon.’

Today, I am an old woman. I open the screen door to let some fresh morning air into the house. The memory of snow haunts me. It is very dark outside, and I cannot see the landscape. As I look into the blackness, I bring my face close to the screen and I hear a gentle rain falling. A fresh damp mist touches my face. After a while, the rain retreats and I take my breakfast out on the deck to watch the sky change as the sun graces the clouds. The inky black of night turns to an overcast grey. Looking inside the house through the side window I see the Christmas tree quietly poised in the shadows. I unplugged the lights the night before in anticipation of packing up Christmas. 

Looking back on my childhood I recall having seen the fading and passing of many winters. Today, I contemplate the passing of winter itself. Each winter morning as I send my daughter out the door to school, I think upon the weather. Fewer and fewer days require her to wear a winter coat. Her memories of snow will be very different than mine. Now a-days, we don't see the mountains of snow in parking lots for children to climb up and tumble down. The streets are not lined with snow piles from snowplows. There is no ice on the sidewalks to slide on.

Instead, plastic holiday decorations materialize across the landscape. There is something haunting and out of place about fabricated snowman situated on manicured lawns. To me they are reminders of something lost. They seem oddly placed in the midst of our neatly planned celebrations. 

In the absence of snow, Christmas lights lack a sense of magic. Distant memories linger of ice storms that miraculously layered frozen sheets of ice an inch thick on the thinnest of the branches. Jack Frost worked his magic. After snowstorms we would walk through an enchanted scenery that was mesmerizing. It was a dream like fairy-tale, a real winter wonderland. No electric cords or tinsel required. 

I fear the loss of winter magic. I can only remember it now. As years go by it becomes harder to recall the taste of snow. I can recall the joy that came with plopping yourself on your back to glide your arms and legs in the fresh snow. Then carefully getting up to look down upon your snow angel. This was winter joy. Is winter now a thing of the past? Or is it something that has passed? Today winter is something I grieve.

Science predicted global warming. But, in our day-to-day existence, what does climate change mean? No more outdoor ice rinks? Were there no more snowball fights? No more dogfights down the sled run? No more visits to The Willow to witness the first snow of winter? 

Did we listen to the trees when they spoke their warnings? If we are not listening to the scientists, then we surely should have listened to the trees. The Chestnut cried out first. I’ve heard the moans of the Ash. I have seen the silenced Hickory lying on mountain sides. Now, I hear the Apple Trees sounds of alarm. 

After being a witness to so much that has been lost it becomes harder and harder to believe in the magic. Are the gifts of winter that Mother gave us gone? We knew this was coming. Why didn’t we listen? 

My mind wanders to Christmas’s past, wondering if we should have celebrated winter instead of synthetic trees with glitter. Christmas wonder has changed, which makes me wonder if our holiday celebrations have been misplaced? Had we believed winter would disappear would we have appreciated them more? These thoughts make me uneasy. 

I recall when glitter fell from the skies of my childhood days. There were rare occasions when, during a snow fall, the sun would make a brief appearance and brilliantly light up every drifting snowflake. Each descending miracle was a glowing diamond slowly falling from the sky. Authentic glints of simmering silver light used to dance across the surface of fallen snow when the sun bounced off it just right. Gleams of captured tinsel were visible in the transparency of icicles like flashes of captured light. Even frost and mist would sparkle like mini fireworks in the early moments of dawn. Were we paying attention? Did we see the magic then?

 My attention returns to the empty Christmas boxes. Under the Christmas tree I find the last of the gifts that hadn’t been put away. I scooped up the mittens, hats, and scarfs to put them in the dresser. The drawer was already full of old winter gear left by Dad. I found space for the new ones and wondered if they would ever get used. It was probably wishful thinking on Santa’s part to deliver such wintertime gifts. 

After removing the ornaments and the strings of lights I disassemble the ‘tree’. I tie it up in a roll and press it gently into the slender box where it will remain until next year. It's a small tree of about 4-feet so the task is completed in a relatively short amount of time. 

I pause before packing up the Snow People who are lined like small gourds on the windowsill. Standing side-by-side they stare at me. I search for the Ziploc bag that has ‘SNOW FAMILY 2014’ written on it in green sharpie marker. 

The Snow Family came into this world through the imagination of my daughter Alexandra, who was at that time nine-years old. She made them from white gym socks that were most likely Grandpa’s, or ‘Jeep Pa’ as she fondly called him. She used to like taking rides with him in the Jeep he owned back then. I would watch them drive away as the gnarly tires left deep tracks in the snow. 

Snow People have peculiar smiles. One by one I pick them up and look at their faces before placing them into the plastic bag. The first one has a large head and body. The wide hat that stretches across the snowman’s large head was made from the ribbed top of the gym sock that had been turned inside out. It was then flipped up revealing the ridges of the sock along the bottom of the hat. Large dots were drawn to create the eyes. A red nose was carefully centered and prominently placed. A soft pink baby blanket that had seen better days was given a second life as a scarf, which my daughter had tightly tied around the snowman’s neck. This functional detail gave definition to the form of the figure by giving some separation between the head and the body. It also hid the rubber band underneath. 

The pink blanket was used to create two other hats, both uniquely crafted. One had a thick purple rubber band as the brim. The body of this snow person was fuzzy compared to the rest, since Alexandra had turned the sock inside out. 

Each family member was created with nuanced differences, but all of them smiling and looking straight ahead. Written on the bottom of each is ‘2014,’ which matches the green sharpie marker on the Ziploc. Once each family member is in the bag, I seal it and gently place them safely into the box. Their dreams of Christmas past are on their way. Silently, I thanked them for their part in my daughter’s childhood memories. 

I carried the Christmas tree box and the wreath out of the main house and up the hill to be stored in the studio. Looking across the hill through the trees the dark storm clouds were inescapable. Trolling, rolling, and looming as if intentionally hung low in the sky above the treetops. These suspended massy layers of strange unnatural smoke eerily billowed and folded over, under, and into each other. It didn’t feel like January. 

Suddenly, the sun behind me shone through a break in the grey clouds. In that instance the trees were luminous. I physically felt my spirit lift in my body at the sight of this heavenly scene. Before me I saw a multitude of branches appear before me shining white in the light. They were reaching, swaying, and stretching for the darkness above. All around me the trees were illuminated and casting rich deep contrasting shadows. “Ah, there it is” I thought to myself. “There is the Peace on Earth.” So beautiful was the landscape that I stood there, frozen in my tracks. I gazed ahead, awe-struck at the sight of glory. “Is this what it feels like to be baptized?” There, in the woods, I knew I could find an answer. I was listening. In this baptism the gift of passage pierced my heart. There I stood before the gates of heaven. “Glory is her name.”

As fast as it appeared the sun disappeared behind the clouds. The woods fell silent. The visual allure in front of me vanished. In the absence of light, the world fell flat. 

A jingle bell rolled in the box I was holding bringing me back to where I was. Slowly, I made my way to the studio. I set the boxes down to unlock the door. In my hand I felt the beads of a keychain that Alexandra made me. Each bead had a different letter. When she made it she crafted the word M-O-T-H-E-R. I carried it with me often until one day I lost the last two letters. I remember feeling the heartbreak as I search for them in a parking lot with no luck. Somehow it was fitting that it now spells M-O-T-H. It had been transformed and re-gifted to me in its new form. 

As I entered the studio, I noticed the air inside the studio was cooler compared the warm breeze outside. I placed the boxes in their storage place and headed back to the main house. 

As I walked down the hill the sky began to rain. I stopped and listened to the droplets as they hit the leaf covered ground. The gentle tapping abruptly quickened and surrounded me from all directions. This beating pulse of Mother’s rain mingled with cheeps from a nearby chickadee. I filled my lungs with the damp Earthy smell in the air. The rhythmic drumming, drumming, drumming came in musical waves of crescendos and decrescendos as the raindrops soaked my clothes. There I stood, listening to the sound of rain, remembering snow.