Iannuccilli: What’s Not to Like About a Snow Storm?
Monday, February 03, 2020
Last week, I wrote about the excitement of storms. I thought I would continue on that theme by writing of snowstorms in days of old … yes, as a kid again, oblivious to the burdens of bad weather.
Here are the lovely words of Mary Oliver’s Poem Looking at a Book of ….
Outside, the snow floats down,
GET THE LATEST BREAKING NEWS HERE -- SIGN UP FOR GOLOCAL FREE DAILY EBLASTit sifts through the crooked branches,
it doesn’t hesitate,
it settles over the ground …
It reminds me of my youthful enthusiasm as I watched the snow and sleet rapping like the tat-tat of my cap gun against the windows of our three family home. Wind blew the snow into huge drifts high along the sidewalks and to the top steps of the first-floor porch. Eager enough though it was cold, I had a feverish desire to get out. I bundled up in my Scotch plaid red Mackinaw jacket with the big black buttons, tucked my pants into my black rubber boots and snapped them up, donned the mittens that were pinned to the jacket and, of course, slapped on the Navy toque. It was time for a snow fort and a neighborhood snowball fight.
I pushed open the door to the yard, stepped out and trudged in drifts to my thighs. The ground scrunched underfoot. The storm had slowed, leaving swirls of light snow, just enough to catch on my tongue. The cold turned on the faucet of my nose. As I reached the end of the driveway, I came upon Grandpa methodically shoveling his walk, scooping each load in a neat packet and serving it to the top of a pile now over my head.
I snuck around to climb to the top of the mountain where Grandpa spotted me. I bounded along, dislodging clumps back to the sidewalk, some falling at his feet. With a soft scowl, he moaned, “Ed-a-Wood!” and smiled.
When he went into the house, it was time to tunnel through the pile from street to sidewalk or, even better, to build a snow fort in anticipation of THE snowball fight, the fight to the death with the losers getting a face wash with snow. We needed a formidable fort to dominate, so Dan and I packed and stacked. Behind that wall, we mounded round, firm balls of snow, ready to pelt friends, now the enemy.
Ready! Go! We winged the missiles. Under attack, we fired so fast that we depleted our cache, and all we had time to do was to scoop flat, flaky wads of snow for rapid-fire tossing. The fluffy portions flailed in the wind. No legend was born that day. I got my face washed.
The day was done. It was time to get home. Shivering and wet, bitter cold, fingers, and toes crying, face beet red, I thought of hot chocolate as in “Would you like some cocoa. Edward?” Mom always called it cocoa. Its warmth trickled in.
I loved the snow.
Ed Iannuccilli is the author of "Growing up Italian" and "What Ever Happened to Sunday Dinner?" and "My Story Continues" can be found here.
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