“Let it snow, let it snow!” Seems like years ago, long before climate change, we had a lot more snow in the winters here in Denver. That may just be a fignewton of my imagination, but warmer, drier winters seem more evident now.
I recall thirty years ago, I was saddled with the task of shoveling knee-deep snow off my sidewalks. I even had a friend stop by one Christmas Eve who ended being a house-guest for the next three days. We quickly became snowed in, and he could not get home.
Back in the early days, I bought a little two-stage snow-blower, only to find out that it had no chance of contending with deep snow and deeper, wind-blown snow-drifts. So I sold it and found a second-hand, tractor-tread snow blower. It was so big that the little lady who first purchased it could not wrestle it around the sidewalks. So she decided to sell it. I was happy to use “Big Foot” the first few years that I had it and even did the sidewalk of the retired teacher next door. Then as the years passed, I would prepare the snow-blower at the beginning of each winter and fill it with fresh gasoline. Then it sat there and sat there, waiting for the big snows which rarely if ever came. I ended up going through the messy effort of draining the unused gas each spring. “Big Foot” has been sitting abandoned in my garage for the last several years.
Living here in Denver, I can't say I care for snow, having to shovel it and drive on it. I'm not like so many avid skiers who can't wait to make the arduous drive up to the mountains just to ski the fresh powder. When I first arrived in Denver many years ago, I guess that I felt obligated to try out skiing the first couple of years. I had to pay more money than I cared to for rental skis, boots, polls, and gasoline. The long drive up and back through endless stop-and-go traffic meant limited time on the slopes. I certainly never have been one of the well-heeled who have condos up in the mountains and do not have to rush back all in one day. I let skiing go and limited my physical activities to sports that I could do right around home.
I see that, over the last several years, the northeast U.S. seems to have been overwhelmed with heavy snowfalls, taking out power to thousands and closing highways. Of course, some areas always have been prone to bitter winters, but it also appears now that climate change is increasing the ferocity of some storms. Not surprisingly, the mindless congressmen in charge of the science committees point to snowy winters as supposed evidence of no such thing as climate change, or “global warming,” as they prefer to call it.
Going back many decades to where I was growing up as a young child, I recall that we had some memorable snow-storms. One of the biggest was when I was five. I have an old photo of me standing on a cleared sidewalk with the snow on either side as high as my chest. Few cars ever drove by our house even during good weather, but it was a rare, brave soul who tried to drive through that heavy snow in winter.
One of my most pleasant memories was of my oldest brother Ted sledding on the empty, snowy street. Now when I say “sledding,” I really mean sledding. There was a wealthy family who owned a lot of land on a forested hill just north of us; and they had a long, steep drive that wound its way up the hill to their house. I recall one day seeing Ted make the long hike up the steep slope to the first bend in the road and then sled all the way down to the street below and past our house. With that much momentum, he continued on for some distance. Now that must have been a grand ride. I don't know how many times he did this, for that was quite a long hike up the hill.
Our growing up with snow during Christmas, we naturally became habituated with the idea of there having to be snow on Christmas. “I'm dreaming of a white Christmas.” That is all well and good, provided one has a home, heat, maybe a warm fire in the fireplace, and the heat stays on. The image of that cozy ambiance still is ingrained in me, although Denver's Christmases usually are brown. If I had some logs, I'd put another log into the fireplace, if only I had a fireplace.
Now that I am discernibly superannuated and I don't ski, I just don't want to hear the song, “Let it snow, let it snow.” I never cheerfully hum that while trying to shovel my walks, often in the dark of early morning before the high-school scholars tramp it down to unremovalbe ice. And, I can't imagine any terrified driver whistling that song as his car is sliding uncontrollably down-hill toward a busy intersection. That happened to me once. I was very lucky; there was a momentary lull in traffic at that time. I'll reserve snowy scenes for the home-made Christmas-card images that I send to people.
© 11 December 2014
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