It’s snowing… again!

The ground is already covered. How long before it turns over to sleet and freezing rain is anybody’s guess, but one thing is for sure: when I wake up, I don’t think I’ll be going outside.

I remember when I was little, how excited I always was to go out and play in the snow. If there was snow on the ground, the second my brother and I would wake up, we’d go stumbling down the stairs and beg my mom to put our snowsuits on, and tie our boots, and put our gloves on, and fix our caps. And we’d go running down the front steps that my dad had shoveled and help him shovel the driveway with our little red shovels. And then we’d get distracted and help my mom pile up snow at the corner where the driveway meets the walkway, and use that giant mound’s added height for the sled ramp we used to build in the front yard.

It was the envy of the neighborhood, since no one had a hill as nice as ours. It would start from the aforementioned corner—the highest point—and slope down all the way across the yard to where the stream had been covered over with snow. We’d build up the sides of the ramp by pushing snow with our gloved hands, and go on run after run to compress the snow; we’d build steps in the snow, up to the summit of the starting point. And we’d holler when anyone had the nerve to drag their feet along our pristine ramp.

On good runs, you could make it all the way over the stream and past the bridge. When it got icy, sometimes you could even make it into the far part of the yard, across the stream. It was always a long trudge back up the hill, alongside the ramp so as not to ruin our beauty. And then we’d go down the hill again and again—on sleds, tubes, sometimes the toboggan—again and again.

When we weren’t sledding, we were throwing snowballs from the forts we’d construct on opposite sides of the end of the driveway. The neighborhood kids would come by and we’d split up into teams; it was always me and Danielle against my brother and Colin when it was a small battle; but with big battles, the teams were fluid—but those two pairs always remained the same.

Danielle and I would usually claim the side nearer the stream, and with the help of the plows that heaped giant piles of snow along the sides of the road, we claimed our corner and built up our defenses. We’d pile up huge walls of snow against the driveway and along both flanks, with only the back open, filling in any vulnerabilities not yet covered by the plows. We would have elaborate tunnel enclosures for defensive purposes, and snow-shelves on which to place our snowballs. Going back from the front portion of the fort, we would build elaborate tunnels and channels with high walls on the side of the incoming fire, so we could move stealthily and hit the enemy from different and unexpected locations. We had a hidden escape route into the stream in case we were invaded. The geography of the yard would prevent them from seeing our escape, at least until we were able to escape into the woods.

After we had built our forts and stockpiled enough snowballs, the battle began, and the end of the driveway—along with our forts and each other—were pelted with snow and ice. The battles were always as much about innovative architecture and strategy as they were about nailing your little brother and his friends with snowballs. Childhood was a glorious time, I will never be able to deny that.

Now, instead of clamoring to spend all day in the snow, I am sitting alone at my desk, looking out my window while trying to write a paper, watching the snow coat the world outside. What a difference 15 years makes…