We had an itty-bitty blizzard Monday — a coating of snow, a whisper of wind — but excited reports were pouring in from sources further south.
Our daughter in Massachusetts cheerily informed us that wind gusts had blown heavy snow off her car. Always look on the bright side! Our son in Connecticut, who would test core strength with prodigious amounts of snow relocation, replied tersely when asked how much had fallen. “Too much,’’ he said.
Accounts from Dede’s original hometown, Jamestown, R.I., claimed 30 inches of snowfall. A dusting to two inches is typical. I can tell you this recent storm was pretty much the end of the world.
I grew up on the mainland, just outside of Providence. Winter was milder than in the Upper Valley. If I got a new bike for Christmas, I could often ride it that day. But the weather turned cranky in February, when it might stomp on us with one or two storms of 12-18 inches or more.
Believe it or not, boys like me, not very enterprising because we cherished our layabout lifestyle, sometimes decided we should earn money by shoveling sidewalks for old ladies or random people who lacked shovels.
We knocked on doors and awkwardly asked if people would engage our services. Some, to our surprise, hired us on.
Knowing nothing about negotiating, we accepted whatever they offered. Most were pretty good about it, paying two or five bucks for a small job or 10 for something larger.
But still, it eventually felt like actual work and we shut the operation down. Snow in warmer places is often wet and heavy, perfect for snowballs and snowmen but bad for lifting. Also, we were not outfitted by the likes of Patagonia. Our high end was Sears. We grew wet and cold, our hands red and achy.
It was back to our usual winter adventures. Not all ended well. I remember walking home one day when I had wandered outside our usual territory. My pants were heavy and soggy (probably from playing in snow piles) and about halfway home my bladder was suddenly in torment.
I was in agony, like Napoleon’s troops trudging back from frozen Moscow. It felt like five miles, but probably was one or two. Or maybe one-half. When you are a kid distance expands according to your imagination, which trends toward the epic.
I was familiar with a picture book from my younger years titled “The Little Engine That Could.” It chanted to itself as it climbed a steep hill. “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.’’ I was trying something along those lines. But maybe it turned into “I gotta go, I gotta go, I gotta go.”
I heroically made it home, opened the door, stepped inside the landing and looked up the stairs to the second floor. Victory!
It was not to be. The sudden rush of warm air broke my steely self-control. A movie would cut to a scene with a sprinkler, a firehose, a broken water main.
Fortunately, none of my siblings were home so there was no teasing or recriminations. However, it had meant a lot to me to struggle and (almost) win the day. And so I learned that there are forces greater than you in this world.
Some other life events ensued, too many to list here, and I ended up in Lebanon as a grownup in 1982. I feel like an old man saying this, but winter was colder then.
Although I am not a skier or ski jumper, I have learned to like winter, real winter, winter before the climate went woozy. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote “Life is real! Life is earnest!,” long before central heating. Some part of me thinks winter should put us to the test.
This winter has done its job. It’s been cold. I’ve walked good distances daily, in snow and below-zero temperatures. Anybody could winter in Florida, but we are winter warriors. Whiny, but warriors still.
I realize that 53.7% of Upper Valley residents – an estimate – think I am nuts to endorse winter. They are the ones who shiver. My side feels a bracing jolt of life. About this – there is no other word for it – we are polarized.
Now we are looking forward to winter’s end, to town meetings and pothole season, which arrives with a sudden thud.
Winter’s approval rating drops. It’s like a stand-up comedian (or president, for that matter) who doesn’t know when to stop, even as the crowd is stirring. Wait, folks, here’s one more and it’s a doozy.
For all that, if we keep our spirits up and watch out for ice (both kinds), we’ll make it to the next thing, spring.
I think we can, I think we can, I think we can.
Dan Mackie lives in West Lebanon. He can be reached at dan.mackie@yahoo.com.