The Snows of Christmas Past

I hear tell from a little online cyber-birdy that there’s been a mountain or seven of snow heaped onto that little small town o’mine back in Ontario. This little online cyber-birdy tweets to me that there hasn’t be a blow like this one in some town. This makes me happy. Christmases haven’t been white in Cornwall for sometime. I blame Al Gore and his Global Warming. Wasn’t inventing the internet enough, Al? You had to go and invent something to melt my beloved snowhills that had been so prominent since my youth. Being a kid in winter time you live for two things: snow and presents…mainly presents but you spare a little bit of excitement for snow.

I take you back now to a younger me, a much younger me as the older me clings to what is left of the memories of him. There he walks in a backyard on Victoria street, snow crunching underneath his small boots. Actually, it is more of a waddle. The younger mes mother bundled him up like an over-packed piece of beef back them and walking was no longer an easy task, especially in snowdrifts that rose up near his waist. His swings on the new red swing set dad had put up that summer are now buried, icicles dangle from the top of the set now threatening to impale all those who dare pass under. The younger me dares and comes out clean on the other side. The younger younger brother appears in the doorway yelling as he is bundled up too: “Don’t start without me. You promised.” The younger me waves a hand at him, picks up a pack of snow and tosses it his way. It is snow fort building time and one shouldn’t dawdle for such important moments. The sun could come out and melt this white gold any moment now. My brother waddles up to me and both of us waddle to the corner of the yard, each of us with our own mental blueprints on how this thing should look. The snow is gathered with our small, red shovels and construction begins. Soon we have built a mighty fort able to withstand anything from the monsters in the closet, a heard of rampaging elephants and even our little sister. Inside was an arsenal of snowballs…just in case. The younger version of Stacy peeks over the fence but NO GIRLS ALLOWED. We toss some snowballs her way just in case she is thinking of a cootie invasion. Alone now, we plan great battles in our quest to conquer the neighborhood. Soon the day will be ours. Our fort is impenetrable! Here we are kings. Hell, we’d sleep in this thing if mom would let us! That yard saw many snow forts before we moved away. Lots of snow men guards, too. We’d use one of dad’s scarves, some carrots from the fridge and buttons from mom’s sewing kit. There was nothing safer to my brother and I then those snow forts in the old Victoria Street back yard. Somehow I feel that when we moved away we left the neighborhood unguarded.

But there would be other forts in other places (none seemed as secure as the Victoria Street forts, though) and there would be great mountains my brother and I would chart expiditions over in the parking lot of Zellers behind the Hollywood Video (now Blockbuster). Now we were at war with each other, as aging siblings are apt to find themselves whenever there is a snow mountain to claim. I’d race to the top and push my brother downward as he attempted to claim my post. Sometimes he’d get the better of me but for the most part the top of the mountain was my perch…well, until the bigger kids chased us off. Damn ice balls! Then came that first snow that was sturdy enough for sledding. Out came the Crazy Carpets, GT SnowRacers or that wooden toboggan (how did that thing last through our lashings?!). We’d cart it all down to the overpass by the train tracks and make our climb to the top as the traffic rushed on by, the buses, the clunky cars and those big rigs trucking whatever into the States. We weren’t very mindful of our safety back then, now that I think of it, what with the trains, the traffic and the fact that our intended target at the bottom of the hill was the possibly frozen creek which we’d trudge through in the summer in search of frogs and the ever elusive muskrat. “Al, errr, you go first.” “I went first last time.” “No you didn’t.” “Did too!” “Did not!” “I DID!” “Okay, fine ya’ big baby.” And down I went aiming for our snow ramp but usually hitting it at the wrong angle which would sending me skidding off into the nearing fence as my brother and “friends” laughed their frozen asses off from the top of the hill. Never are a duo of middle fingers more appropriate. Oh for three hands! These days in the snow would end with a cup of hot chocolate and mounds of marshmallows as our boots dried on the heater in the basement.

As we aged I found the mountains were getting smaller. Maybe it was me that was just getting bigger but it did snow a lot less until in my twenties when I would come home from college sometimes it wouldn’t have snowed at all. White Christmases would often just become dreams as green Christmases became more prominent. This is what I am currently getting here in Japan. Not even a flake of snow. The trees are still fairly lush and though the weather frigid the ground remains green. Knowing that Cornwall looks to be getting a white Christmas makes me happy. The thought of those white blankets over the city brings back those memories. Some may say I’m too old for snowforts, snowmen and snowballs. Those folks deserve a facefull of sleet. Champion snowfort builders should never be made to retire. So here I sit nine days before Christmas waiting for a snow that probably won’t come but there’s always hope that Santa has a little magic for me. Then again, it’s probably best things stay green. I don’t think the neighbors would welcome a snowball attack! BANSI!!!!