Snowballs

  I didn’t play in the snow last week. We adults are most often taken over by events when a “Snowmeggedon” hits the South. There’re bread and milk to drain from the Walmart, Kroger and Dollar Generals in the tri-county area, not to mention anti-freeze, salt and ice-melt of every type to be scavenged and hoarded like it will stop the inevitable overwhelming of our warm climate natural environment. We mostly guffaw at the purchase of things like snow-chains for tires, snow shovels and gas-powered generators until the doom is already upon us. So we barricade ourselves in the house. We  eat our French toast (and snow-cream, don’t forget to make the snow-cream!), drink our hot chocolate and pray that the internet doesn’t go out until we finish the latest episode of “1000 Pound Sisters” and “Landman” And, of course, we hope the lights and heat hold up through the blizzard as well. Priorities are what they are. 

     I remember a big snow back when I was a kid in Arkansas. We usually only got snow once a year. It could happen any time from November till February, and it was usually just dusting. Just enough to make a snowball and, maybe, scrape enough off the top of our car to make some snow cream. But, heck, it was Arkansas, so what do you expect? Well, this one time, probably around 1975 because I think I was in fifth grade, we had a huge snow. Probably four, or five, inches of the best powdered snow a kid could dream of. It covered everything. We had snowball fights. We built snowmen. We made angels in the snow. We took milk crates and cardboard (who owns an actual sled in Arkansas?) and slid down the hill behind the elementary school. It was one of the best snows of my lifetime. 

     I was alone on the elementary school playground. We lived on the next block over so this place was where everyone played year-round. The playground had slides, monkey-bars and see-saws up near the old brick school, but there was a football field-sized field out in front of that, surrounded by hedges and trees. It was a great place to play. My own kids got to grow up playing on that same hallowed ground of childhood. That day, it was just me. A field of virgin snow, white, pristine and beautiful. I had been playing for a while and I was cold. The white socks on my hands (Arkansas mitten. Yeah, again-who owns mittens in Arkansas?) were crusted with frozen snow already, but I decided to roll some snow into a snowball. I just wanted to see how big I could get it. It started slow. I was down on the ground, on my knees, getting it started, as my teeth chattered. It got bigger. I kept rolling. Soon it was up to my knees and I could stand up and roll it. Then it was to my waist! Holy cow! I’d never rolled one this big. Usually the snow wasn’t the right consistency for this kind of construction. I continued to labor, sweating icicles as the ball got heavier and harder to roll. In thirty minutes time I’d rolled it all the way to the other end of the field. That little fifth grader made a snowball that stood at least a foot above his head! Yes, it was probably only about five, maybe six, feet tall, but that was huge to me! I had joy in my heart. My cold, shivering heart was bursting with pride. No structure on the face of the planet could compare to that thing. I only wished that our playground was on the edge of a hill, so I could’ve rolled it over the edge and watched it destroy cars and villages like on the cartoons I so loved. Sigh. Such is life. 

      Like I said, I didn’t get to play in the snow this week. I missed only half a day of work Monday because it took some effort to get out of my driveway. Since I work at a Rehab Hospital, which NEVER closes, I try and make every effort to be there. Lots of folks had a pretty bad time of it, so I’ll just say that I’m grateful to the Big Guy that I made it to work every day safely and my family was safe and unhurt. All that said, I sure wish I could’ve played in the snow. I sure miss that snowball. I wonder if he misses me? 

Stay safe, erbody. 

God bless Y’all.