The White Knight

A story built like a snowman about rediscovering the lost joy of snow.

There was a time, not so long ago, when I was a snow grump. Snow was cow dung falling from the sky, minus the stink. You cursed it, shoveled it, trudged through it, spun your wheels in it. It hurt my eyes to look at it, and the more it stayed around, the dirtier and uglier it got. Stained brown and black and gray and, in spots frequented by dogs, yellow. It made life cold and difficult. I wanted it out of my life. Forever.

 

Until the day the White Knight appeared on my rooftop. 
 
What, you say you don’t believe me? I assure you it is true. 
 
It was the third day of February of 2008, the day after Groundhog Day. 

 

I didn’t see him at first. All I saw was snow. A foot deep.

 

It was my son who pointed him out to me. We’d bundled up and hiked four floors to the rooftop deck.

 

“You really want to do this?” I asked before opening the door.

 

I was looking for a last-ditch way out, but he tilted his head back so I could see his face over the oversized hood. His nod was unneeded. I saw the answer in those big browns.

 

So we stepped out onto the previously untouched snow. I bent down and packed a snowball in my gloves. Not the best packing, but it would do.

 

I bent back down and put the snowball to the ground. And started rolling it in the snow. Rolling and packing. Rolling and packing.

 

About twenty minutes later, I had a aching back and a snowball that was about the size of an over-inflated beach ball. My son smiled, and now wanted to know how he could help.

 

“Your job is the head,” I said, and I packed a snowball for him and told him to go from there.

 

While he set to work on the head, I set to work on the middle. The more I rolled and packed, the more my back hurt.

 

About twenty minutes later, I had my middle. I lifted it and carefully placed it atop the first snowball. It looked good.

 

“How’s that head coming along?” I asked.

 

My son was working on the top of a bench. The head looked like a flattened sand castle. I complimented him on his work, but told him it would need a bit of an adjustment. He seemed to understand and I took over.

 

About twenty minutes later, my left knee had joined the sore team. As I rose from my squatting position with head in hand, I nearly fell forward into the snow. My work nearly destroyed. But I regained my balance and placed the head atop the middle. Then I set about shaping and stabilizing our snow creation.

 

It wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t bad, either. Still, there was something missing. So we stepped back inside, stripped off our gloves, coats and boots, and traipsed down the steps in search of the rest of our snowman. Piece by piece we collected what was needed to make him come to life. Pennies for his mouth. Nickels for his eyes. We couldn’t find a carrot in the fridge, so we improvised a bit and took an ice cream cone for his nose. Wire hangars replaced sticks for the arms.

 

Up the stairs we went again. Back on went the boots, the gloves and the coats. Out into the cold we went again.

 

On went the nose. On went the eyes and the mouth. On went the arms.

 

Not bad, but still not done. There were still two more pieces left. Through one wire hangar arm went a plastic sword. On top of the snow head went a plastic knight’s helmet.

 

The White Knight had come to life on our rooftop.

 

I stepped back and admired him. Then looked over to the squire by my side. He didn't appear content.

 

"What's wrong? He looks pretty good, don't you think?"

 

There was a long pause. Then a timid, "Um, can I get a sword?"

 

Now I understood. A knight isn't a knight if he doesn't fight. So once again we stepped back inside, stripped off our gloves, coats and boots, and traipsed down the steps in search of another sword. When the squire picked out the perfect weapon, a wooden prize from a summer Renaissance faire, we paraded back up the stairs.  Back on went the boots, the gloves and the coats. Out into the cold we went again.

 

The little squire was a head taller than the White Knight, but the White Knight carried a little extra packing. It sized up to be an even match. My son looked up at me with that glimmer in his eye and an eager smile. I gave him the nod and the battle commenced.

 

Watching my son square off against the White Knight brought me back to a different place and time, a time when I wasn’t a snow grump. A time when I couldn’t wait to go out and play in the snow and build snow forts and throw snowballs and pretend that I was the greatest snow warrior of all time.

 

As I cheered on my little squire, it suddenly didn’t feel quite so cold outside and my back and my left knee didn’t ache quite so much. And the snow?  Well, it didn’t look ugly at all to me any more. Instead, it looked like it did to me when I was a kid. It looked like a lot of fun.

 

The White Knight didn't put up much of a fight. Four times his sword fell to the ground. Each time, I dutifully picked it up out of the snow for him and put it back into his arms. Until finally I told the squire that the White Knight was finished for the day. He'd had enough. Tomorrow, I told him, there would be another battle.

 

There was no tomorrow for the White Knight. Temperatures rose the next day and a steady rain came down. When I got home from work, I climbed to the top of the stairs and looked outside onto the roofdeck. I knew what I'd see before I saw it.

 

When I picked up my son from preschool, I told him the sad news.

 

"Is it because I defeated him?" he asked.

 

I smiled. "Yes," I told him.

     

Like many a knight before him, the White Knight's life was too short. Although the record books will show he never won a battle, I know better. Because, against all odds, he did win one battle. He reminded me of what I knew when I was little but had forgotten as I'd grown up. That snow can be fun. And in doing so, he conquered the snow grump in me.