Winter Wonderland

I recall the snow storm of 1994, when we got over 5 feet of snow over night!

WINTER WONDERLAND

There was one thing about living on The Rez. It was a very small place with nothing exciting to do. The big event of summer vacation was when your neighbor cleaned his pool. That meant that all his neighbor’s kids, whether he knew them or not, had access to swim in it.

Fall was a little less exciting; Harrah Elementary School would have Powwow days and the Indians would dress in skins and bells and tins and perform for the town. Usually it drew a good crowd.

The leaves were the most exciting; Harrah had so many Maple trees, that you could literally burry your kid in their leaves. The kids didn’t mind, and the parents were glad not only to entertain the kids, but the thought of burying the wild children of Harrah, Washington, was an extreme thrill; no more running around with their hands clapping over there mouth, going “ab-wab-bab-wa! Ab-wab-bab-wa!” like the Natives did in the old Western movies; no more kids coming in and out, in and out, in and out, of the screen door; no more bullies hitting your child with a stick—children were always savages, but especially when the first snows came.

I was one of the children who did not like snow-ball fights nor snow forts. I could barely build a snowman, let alone make a fortress of ice and powdered snow. I saw winter as a quiet thing; the soiled leaves disappeared sometimes overnight, and when we’d wake up, sometimes there would be three, (or even five!) feet of snow!

Have you ever walked to school in the snow? I mean, as a kid. You’re about four feet, three inches tall. The snow itself was four feet. You’d plow your way across the icy road (which, thank goodness, was all paved clear sometimes during the dark hours,) and behind Mr. Zaglo’s garden, you’d cross into No Man’s Land: The Jogging Field.

Only the stupid kids liked to jog. That, or, the really brave. It was massive track with a massive field around it and inside of it. It was too long. Made for adults, some kids swore. And they always made you run it when it was either boiling hot out, or at times like this, when there was nothing but a sheet of white.

I felt bad every time I crossed that field and marked up the fresh snow. I’d try to go the same path as I did the day before; or else, follow in another kid’s footpath. But somehow, when the day was done, that virginal snow, that blanket of purity, was turning into slush, marked up by a billion, trillion shoes.

But first, you had to get across it. You would have to have special overalls that keep you from getting wet, and they are so bulky and awkward that, by the time you get them over your four layers of clothes (underwear and long-johns; two or three socks; a shirt, overall jeans; then a sweater; topped off by the scarf, hat, earmuffs, and mittens you were forced to wear as well,) it’s not like you could really bend the proper way, anyway.

But snow boots were always a fashion statement. You had to have good snow boots, your parents would say. Sturdy ones. Ones that don’t let in the moister. You said, “But mom, I want the ones that glow in the dark,” or “the ones with the pink fur on the top!” It didn’t matter, really, because in the end, you always got the ugliest, most sturdiest snow boots your parents could afford. Yet, they’d always spray them with water-repellent. The day the water-repellent spray came out was like a day of epiphany—it meant that rain or snow was here, and that meant winter. The fumes of the spray were nothing compared to the natural high a kid would get after he’d put on his freshly waterproofed boots.

So there I was. Stiff as a board in my layers of warmth and wearing boots that I didn’t even like. It didn’t help that my anti-snow wetsuit was bright yellow; or that I had inherited the marshmallow-puff like jacket that Dad made me wear. It was a terrible jacket. It was the same pee-colored yellow as my snowsuit, and it had huge pockets of fluff all over it. I cringed as I stepped onto the field. The snow was up to my knees. It was hard to bend in these clothes, let alone trudge the depths of the snow. It was kind of like what walking through molasses would be like, I imagined.

Now the snow was up past my bellybutton. I could feel the cold entering my toes as I pushed the snow away with my mittened hands. The cloth of the mittens were so wet I couldn’t feel my fingers. They felt like fire! I imagined myself as a big ball of flame as I trudged along the frighteningly deep snow; a blazing child who could melt the snow feet before she got to a patch of it; a child with so much warmth that the snow melted by just the glare of my glasses.

The water-resistant spray was starting to die. The moisture had entered the tips of my socks. Even my toenails hurt, the tips of my toes were so cold and so wet. “Gosh dang darn it; I hate this; of all the yellow bellied things to do; god darn it; stupid palookas…” I’d say.

The other kids always made it to the other side of the jogging track before I did. I could hear them call out my name. “Katie! Oh, Katie! Katie’s a baby! Baby-Katie! Can’t cross the snow field!” Then, I’d emerge, wetter than a new born kitten and spluttering snow that I had inhaled.

“Look at Katie!” they’d say. “She looks like a big snowball in those puffy clothes! A big, YELLOW snow ball!”

Yes, winter was hard for me. I loved it very much, but it didn’t care much for me.

You wonder why kids looked forward to this kind of thing. I really couldn’t tell you. That’s one field I haven’t crossed yet. I suppose just getting across that massive death-trap was enough of a thrill, that nothing else mattered.

Kids on the Rez. They were savages. I was a kid on the Rez once…