Snow and Ice
A West Texas Story of the 1950s
To be clear: I do NOT do snow. Not willingly. Never have, and, by now it seems pretty certain, never will.
I see photos on Facebook and Instagram of beaming skiers on snowy slopes of western resorts (Hi, neighbors!) – and I shudder. They snap me back in an instant to a frigid West Texas night 70 years ago, the window of my bedroom rattling in its frame as the bitter wind strikes it, wind blowing straight down from the Arctic, nothing between there and me to break it as it scorches the land with cosmic freezer burn. I peek through the icy windowpane at white something half-way up the glass. I fear that God has forsaken us, just as they’d told me in Sunday school he would, if I were bad. I must have been very very bad.
When I awake the next morning, to the feeble light from a frozen sun that fails to light up my frosty room, the breath visible as it flows out of me (could it be that Holy Ghost they’d also told me about in Sunday School?), I shudder again. I shut my eyes and draw myself into a knot beneath the covers. With the instinct of a hibernating bear cub, I will not come out till spring.
But people I had supposed loved me soon yank me up (I have a flashback to a previous yanking against my will, from another dark, warm, aqueous Nirvana), and they bundle me into what is meant to pass for winter gear, and take me out into it.
I am told it is a thing called “snow.” A new term of terror enters my vocabulary.
Cold. Wet, when it melts inside my boots – but not in that dark, warm way. Up to my chin – though, of course, I am shorter than I would one day be. The snowman rolling and the snowball fighting, touted as “fun” don’t come even close to my understanding of the word. A first encounter with snow ice cream makes the experience a bit less awful – but only a bit.
And another time, as the snow blows and the sleet pelts, driving towards a family Christmas three hours away, across the empty space of the Texas Panhandle, between the fields of winter wheat and sorghum, through the broken fringes of Palo Duro Canyon (we pronounced it the proper West Texas way, of course: Pala Dura), across the vast grass prairie, which even the ever-grazing longhorns have abandoned, gone as far as they can in search of warmth, until some barbed-wire corner stops their search, and they cluster together as the blowing snow transforms them into a bovine drift. Only my mother and me in the car; my father preferring to celebrate the holiday at home, with Jack Daniels. Mother, never the driver, driving. The two of us forge on through the wind and snow, terrified that the car might break down, and we then freeze into human icicles. A child can sense when MOTHER is terrified and learns lessons about the terrifying world from it. Cold lessons.
Even in a hot climate, like the one I inhabit now, the world can seem like a cold place. I can’t imagine what a horror it must seem, under feet of lake-effect snow or mountains of Sierra Madre drifts. Or maybe the problem is that I can only imagine it, never having experienced it in the (frigid) flesh.
I have never known any of the joys that some say come along with snow, not the skiing nor the sledding nor the snowboarding. But those supposed joys I have experienced – the snow manning, snow balling, snow ice creaming – fell so far short, I hold little hope as concerns those others either.
“Some say the world will end in fire / Some say in ice,” Robert Frost said. He went with fire, at least for a first “perishing.” But a New England man, with the name “Frost” at that, I hardly think he counts as an unbiased judge.
I KNOW it’s going to end in ice. And if it has to perish twice? MORE ICE.
Growing up in the snow belt city of Rochester, NY, winter was more than just a season—it was, by sometimes painful necessity, a way of life. As a kid when the first flurries dusted the ground, I knew exactly what to expect: a world transformed into a frosty playground full of endless possibilities. Snowbanks became forts, frozen ponds turned into skating rinks, and hills—steep, slippery, and glorious—became the backdrop to some of my most cherished memories.
It all started with the snow forts.
My friends and I would spend hours in the front yard, constructing elaborate snow structures lined with discarded Christmas trees, which we’d collect along our city street. It was the perfect combination: the icy scent of pine mingling with the fresh snow, and the joy of building something big enough to hide inside. Our forts weren’t just for shelter—they were for battle. Armed with snowballs, we’d launch strategic attacks on friends and siblings, It was, as we’d call it, an epic war on winter.
When we’d had our fill of fort-building (and snowball combat), it was time to hit the hills. Genesee Valley Park was across town and it felt like we had the whole place to ourselves once the snow had settled. Sledding down the hills was an adrenaline rush—a blur of white, wind, and screams as we sped toward the bottom and then trudging back up to do it all over again.
As we got older, we graduated to the rinks. Rochester had its share of outdoor ice, both artificial and natural, and ice skating was a rite of passage. Some winters, it was the rink at Genesee Valley Park itself, the ice smooth as glass and perfect for racing around with friends. Other winters, when the temps dropped low enough, we’d find ourselves on one of the natural ponds that dotted the city—slightly bumpier, but still magical in its own way. There’s something special about skating outdoors, with the winter wind in your face and the sky a soft shade of blue-gray. The sound of your blades slicing through the ice was the soundtrack of childhood.
But one the best parts? The snowmen. Every year, no matter how old we got, we’d roll snowballs on our front lawn, stacking them high to create the tallest, most ridiculous snowmen. The carrot noses were always a must, as were scarves and old hats.
Of course, the best part were the days when, with our ears pressed to the radio on the kitchen counter, we heard the welcome news that “Schools are closed because of the snow.” Free day, and, of course, back outdoors to play in the snow.
As I got older and moved into adulthood, my winter survival skills evolved. I took up cross-country skiing, gliding through the snowy landscapes with the same sense of adventure I’d had as a kid. But downhill skiing? That was a different story. I tried. Oh, how I tried! Several ill-fated attempts on the mountains of Vermont left me sore, bruised, and with a deep respect for the ski slopes. It turns out, I’m much more comfortable skiing across a flat trail than down a steep hill.
So, I left the downhill skiing to the experts and kept my skis on level ground, where I could gracefully glide without fear of tumbling down an entire mountain.
Still, fond memories of those snowy days in Rochester linger, with thoughts of family and friends, many long gone. Whether I was building forts, sledding, skating, or simply enjoying the winter’s quiet, there’s something about those chilly days that sticks with you.
However, at this age, I have no wish to repeat these snowy escapades. I am very glad to be here living in the south where today’s brief flurries were soon gone.
I hope you and Rick are staying warm and cozy in your lovely home.