“We sure used to get a lot more snow than we do now,” is a sentiment I’ve heard many times, but I am cautious of the claim which seems akin to the old timer’s story of how many miles he had to walk through the snow to get to school. The main way to know about weather—how it was—is to study weather records. Still, to tell a story about the weather is to reveal more than the weather. It exposes a person’s feelings, a yearning for an experience of old, a desire to touch again some past season of delight or dread.
My story celebrates my favorite stage of childhood development—that cusp of so many changes often called pre-pubescence. What I like most about the phase is the way the child is open to dream, ready to believe, full of play, and living in the now—at least that’s how I experienced it that winter of 1959, the winter of the big snow. We used to have snows in my childhood and celebrated them with snow angels, snow balls, snow forts, and snow men. But that winter the big storm brought new big snow adventures.
Our gang, with our hideout in the rafters of my folks’ garage, hung out together at every opportunity. Gang travel had originally taken us to each other’s houses, then to the high school football field one block down the alley, then to the public swimming pool one mile away, and eventually to the hills and valleys several miles west of town.
The summer before the storm, we hiked or rode our bicycles out west to a farm where we were allowed to play in the pastures. My best friend Keith took us to where a small spring flowed from the hillside. There we refilled our canteens. Downstream we would set up camp, build a small fire, cook whatever food we’d brought from home, and generally enjoy one another. That fall, we brought along our bows and arrows and hunted cottontails. We pursued those elusive hoppers for hours, stalking, chasing, shooting, running, screaming, and never once making a kill. We laughed raucously, imagining ourselves hunters, adventurers, and we slept deeply upon returning home at night.
Then the snow came. It wasn’t a dusting; it wasn’t a snow that covered your shoes; it was a real snow, you know, like those we used to get in the old days, one that brought the town to a halt, a two-foot snow with wind, drifts, more snow. But Saturday dawned sunny. We gathered with sleds and plans and trudged west, out to the hills to make the best of it.
The big snow came in the best year of my life, the one in which I lost track of time, the one I celebrated friendship along with country adventures. I was in the sixth grade, the year before I started sacking and carrying groceries at the store. Keith and I, probably Dinky and Dick too, went sledding in the deep snow. We had Boy Scout training and felt older-elementary-male confidence. We hiked west of town to a hillside where we could sled down to a ravine of woods where we could then get out of the wind. We spent all day for three Saturdays in a row out there having our winter adventures. Each week our Imaginations soared, our plans got bolder. New snow fell each week and although we nearly froze hiking through snow often over our knees, we laughed our way like fools or kings or warriors. In the woods we built a fire, and when we had warmed ourselves and dried our clothes, gave ourselves to snow play like never before.
After two Saturdays out, Keith remembered seeing some old skis in his dad’s workshop. They were simple things, not long, but short skis with only a single leather strap across the midpoint, a place to insert the shoes. They must have been used on the farm when chores had to be completed but the snow was too deep for easy walking to the barn, at least that was our Kansas winter fantasy. The skis certainly were not meant for downhill skiing, but we were boys with great imaginations and enough snow to make a ramp.
We reasoned if we let the old German sled with steel covered wooden runners glide down the hill on its own, it would show us the best route for skiing. So we climbed the hill, and turned the sled loose, trusting in good luck and gravity. Following the sled, we tramped the area between the runner marks for our ski run. We had no poles but along the ravine found sticks to serve. With them we hurried back up the hill to try out the skis. We were pleased with our few successes and gleefully took turns trying until one of the brittle leather straps broke. Our disappointment led to more ideas. Keith thought we should go down the track on our sleds. When we discovered most of the sleds sat too low to make any speed, he brought the old German one to the top and sat on it, aimed downhill and went hurtling down our well packed run. Having forgotten his sixth grade science lessons on gravity, he’d made no plans for how to stop the sled. This was no drivable sled with flexible runners, no way to guide or stop it except by dragging a leg behind. But Keith wasn’t lying down. He was sitting tall and speeding down the hill towards the woods. He stopped when the front of the sled hit a sapping and broke the metal brace. He stopped when his crotch met the rough bark. He stopped when the tree knocked the wind of him and threw him to the ground. We ran to his rescue, dragged him over to the fire to warm up. He finally got his breath and described his feeling of elation on his brief trip from the top. We shared our snacks with Keith, our athletic hero, my best friend. Then, like good Scouts, we put out the fire and dragged home our sleds and packs. We trudged through the snow, laughing, making big plans for the next big snow.
A year lapsed before it came. By then, I was helping customers get their groceries to their cars. I never returned to the slopes, but fortunately I did get to sled as an adult, then being pulled by ropes behind an International Harvester Scout up Highway 90 in western Colorado and sailing free back down the steep slope of the road’s switch backs. That ride took me back to my childhood and extended my thrill from a ride of a few feet to one of nearly a mile. Such a thrill. Such a fine reminder of the big Kansas snows and our small sixth grade adventures.
I’m still amazed when the snow piles up. I have such fond memories, but now I also think about driving in blizzards and inconveniences such as the loss of work. My enthusiasm is dampened by adult concerns. Still, I say, “We used to get a lot more snow years ago,” and let my memory slide down the hills of yearning. I smile. I love my friends. I love my life. I love the snow.
Denver, 2011
About the Author
Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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