The Word for Winter

You know, if it weren’t for the cold and snow and the ice and wind, winter wouldn’t be so bad. But winter has an annoying tendency to get wintry, doesn’t it?

I developed an attitude toward the season early on, during those prehistoric days of childhood. We lived up north back then, and we’d get a lot of snowstorms. And at least once every winter, we’d just get hammered.

They say the Eskimos have hundreds of words for snow, depending on the type. My brother and I had a word for the deep and drifting snow left by one of these storms.

The word was “Whoa!”

If one of us woke up and looked out the window and said, “Whoa!” the other would know exactly what he meant.

“Whoa snow” was a good snow, especially if it came on a school day and if you could go out and just play in it. But if it were cold and windy — even if it canceled school — you just wanted to stay inside, and “whoa snow” became something else. It was then called “whoa-oh-no snow.”

It was after one of those whoa-oh-no snows, which came, unfortunately on a Saturday, that Dad hustled us outside to help him shovel the driveway. Tough love.

I know now that the driveway was only a few hundred square feet, but back then it seemed like 40 acres. The distance from the garage to the street was here to eternity. 

Whenever you went out into a snow like this, it took some preparation. Actually, there’s a science to it. You want to be warm enough, but you don’t want to be so bundled up that you can’t move and protect yourself when your brother comes at you with a shovel.

So you followed a certain protocol when getting dressed. First came the long johns, then a pair of socks, and you tucked the long johns into the socks to prevent what is known as thermal creep. Nothing worse than a pair of rebellious long johns.  

Then came the insulated top, the second pair of socks, the jeans and a shirt. At the back door you slipped into a hooded sweatshirt and a pair of rubber boots, and then you punched yourself into a heavy coat and pulled on a knit cap.  The last thing you grabbed was a pair of gloves and a sense of dread.

The wind hit us just as we left the back door. Dad had started the work and had two shovels waiting for us. Once we got started, he disappeared. Even tougher love.

My brother, two years older than I, would assume the role of foreman in situations like this, and he pretty much told me how to grip my shovel and which way to throw the snow and how I was to hold my mouth while doing so.

He would grow up to become an architect, but even back then he had definite ideas on how to build structures and organize construction projects. So he had a particular notion about how the snow was to be removed from the driveway and where it was to be stacked. Snow was never “piled” on my brother’s watch, it was always “stacked.”

His idea was to build a wall to act as a shield against the wind, to stop further drifting in the driveway. I recognized the nobility of his vision, but his work process and my role as grunt laborer merely added to my misery, which was compounded by the fact that somehow snow had seeped into my boots and now my toes were feeling squishy.

Thankfully, though, we finished the job in just under 14 hours. Or so it seemed.

Back inside I knocked snow from my boots, and while hanging up my wet winter wear I stole a glance out the window. It was still blowing and snow was drifting in open areas, but my brother’s wall of snow, I was only slightly happy to see, was working just as he had designed it.

When I removed my boots, I discovered my socks had turned blue and my toes were red, and as I padded barefoot across the cold tile toward my room, I mildly cursed winter.

But you know, if my toes hadn’t been so cold, the fresh socks I put on just then wouldn’t have felt so good. I almost forgot how miserable I had been outside.  And back in the living room, Dad had a fire going in the fireplace. While my brother and I were shoveling snow, he’d been chopping wood, and the house smelled faintly of wood smoke. It was downright cozy.

“Good job out there,” Dad said, and he squeezed my shoulder as I found a spot in front of the fire. My brother and I propped our feet up and toasted them in the direct heat.

There are times today, like right now, that I am still warmed by this memory.  And I don’t mind winter at all. As a matter of fact, I appreciate it.

Meanwhile, Mom had made some hot chocolate and brought each of us a steaming mug. With marshmallows.

The Eskimos might have a lot of words for hot chocolate, too. But my brother and I had our own word for it when it came to your lips as you sat in front of a fire, warming your toes in fresh woolen socks.

And the word was “Ahhh.”

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