Snow Fix

A few inches of snow. That’s what it took to adjust my attitude toward winter this year. For as long as I can remember, I have loved this season of white – it’s filled with Christmas magic and snowy woods and skiing. But this December, I just wasn’t feeling it.

This year, I held tighter than ever to summer, lamenting its passing in a way I never had. Summer had provided a bit of a respite from the pandemic, as we spent the long days mostly outside and often with friends – hiking and splashing in the river or just sitting together. Here in the more northern realm of New England, it felt as if we were in a germ-free bubble of safety. Autumn arrived with colors as brilliant as ever, but also with the kids returning to school, less opportunity to gather (safely, outdoors) with friends, shorter days and continued uncertainty.

While visions of powder days and wintery wonderlands normally fill my head once the leaves drop from the trees, this winter took shape in my mind as an endless stretch of cold, dark days. Even the thought of skiing didn’t excite me. I couldn’t – and still can’t – picture a ski season without the banter of the coaches’ room in Ernie’s Haus, the young kids I coach sharing candy at snack time, my own kids goofing around with their friends and sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at lunchtime.

Rather than bemoaning the lack of snow, as I would normally do, I reveled in the warm weather that lingered into this strange December, in long walks through the woods, and in the extra time of unexpected free weekends due to a delayed start to the season. It didn’t feel like December or ski season or Christmastime. It felt like endless November, and despite my normal disdain for that month, this year I didn’t mind.

But Saturday afternoon, the steady drizzle turned to snow, and Sunday morning, we woke up to a landscape transformed to white. The tree limbs, long bare of leaves, were sheathed in snow. The mountains were covered. The plows once again prowled the back roads near home.

My son pulled the old toboggan out of the depths of the garage and we trudged through the snow to my folks’ house to visit (outside) and help with the shoveling. After lunch, we rallied some friends and a cousin, and the kids spent a couple of hours tramping up, then sliding down the long hill of my in-laws’ yard.

It was an afternoon of laughter and rosy cheeks and snowballs lobbed at passing sledders. It felt almost normal. It felt good.

Back home, the lights of the recently-trimmed Christmas tree twinkled against the early dusk outside. Our familiar hodgepodge of holiday decorations occupied their regular December spots along windowsills and across the mantle. The skis, hauled out of their summer storage place just the day before, were waxed and ready – for whatever this season will look like.

It still doesn’t feel like all is right in our little piece of the world, and maybe it won’t for some time. Our anticipation of the season is tinged, in this year of 2020, with anxiety. But a little bit of snow went a long way to remind me that I really do love this season – and had me embracing winter again, at last.

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appears as Meghan's December 10, 2020 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record. 

Seasonal Shift

My children were in the yard basking in the March sunshine, still bundled up in snow pants and parkas one recent afternoon when my daughter announced she was tired of winter and wanted it to be spring. The kids started talking about all the things they love about warmer weather months: butterflies and kayaking, the chorus of spring peepers from the pond nearby, eating ice cream on the porch after dinner.

Sliding through the seasons...

This daydream of spring was momentary, and soon the kids were embracing winter again, jumping into some game that involved snow and imagination, with white tigers, sled dogs, and arctic seals overtaking the tunnels and caves and sliding troughs of the snow fort.

I am just as conflicted during these in-between-seasons times: simultaneously longing for the season that will be here eventually, and wistful for the one that will soon pass. In March, I strive to squeeze in as many wintery things as I can, and I dream of warmer weather hikes and bike rides, green grass and flowers, walking outside without having to don extra layers against the chill.

As winter, which certainly still has long to linger, shows signs of a slow fade, we get down to our favorite cold weather fun before it’s too late – often with the benefit of warmer days and sun on our faces. Last week, before the temperature warmed enough to melt the ice, we embarked on an after-school outing to the town skating rink, where the kids and their friends glided and stutter-stepped around the ice, ditching outer layers in the relative warmth of a March afternoon.

Over the weekend my husband dragged two old toboggans from the garage, where they’d been gathering dust for a few years, and we carted them just up the road to a hill where he used to sled as a kid. With friends and dog we reveled in an afternoon of flying downhill on something other than skis. Once the track was set, the old toboggans and newer plastic sleds flew right across the car-less road and over the snowbank on the other side. Laughter and screaming giggles were the day’s soundtrack. Several climbs back up through deep snow made for tired, but very happy, kids – and parents.

With the end of ski season clearly on the horizon, I am scheming as many more runs as possible. It’s been a fine ski season, with lots of snow, uncharacteristically fluffy for New England, and the cover is still good, even in the trees, which is where the kids like to be. In January and February, I may sometimes skip a ski morning to complete some other, more necessary, task. In March there are no excuses: ski now, or wait until December rolls around again.

Soon will come that early spring day when the kids return home from the mountain and pull their bikes from the garage for an après ski spin. By then the driveway – now a sheet of ice in various stages of melting and refreezing – will be a mire of mud and puddles, and the front hall a confused jumble of mud boots and snow boots, ski pants and raincoats, winter hats and ball caps.

For now, the icicles continue their steady drip, and the snowbanks shrink slowly. The chickadees’ song becomes louder and more constantly present. The March wind rushing through the trees holds both the stubborn chill of winter and the promise of the coming spring, and our thoughts shift on that breeze from one season to the next. 

Original content by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul, posted to her Blog: Writings From a Full Life. This essay also appears as Meghan's Close to Home column in the March 13, 2015 edition of the Littleton Record.