Looking out my Backdoor: Romancing the snow

My daughter Dee Dee sent me pictures of Antoinette building a snowman, the falling white fluff thick on the ground, the tree branches covered with hoar frost. For a moment, just a moment, mind you, I had a twinge of homesick nostalgia, for snow.

I have a theory. Since snow in inevitable in our northern climes, in order to find a marginal ability to tolerate the slick, nasty frozen stuff — as opposed to the genius of ice-cream — we inventive humans, creatures without benefit of naturally wooly or furry protective skin, invent a romance around snow.

I mean, really, think about it. We have to find some way to live with the ugly truth, so we invent myths right and left. (That is not necessarily a political statement unless one wishes it to be so.)

With the holiday seasons, the romantic myths surrounding snow, snow which surrounds everything, take on an unnatural energy. Consider Thanksgiving.

“Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother’s house we go. The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh, through the white and drifted snow.” It is bad enough in a heated vehicle. We think an open sleigh behind a self-fueled horse would be lovely? Get real.

The song image gets worse. “Oh, how the wind does blow. It bites the nose and stings the toes, as over the ground we go.” As far as I’m concerned, those words take any vestigial romance out of the picture. Winter wind. Icicles mounting on scarf wrapped around lower face. Feet turned into blocks of ice, even in wool lined mukluks. Don’t forget the fingers one can no longer move. Frostbite imminent. Yep. Real romantic there.

Christmas is even worse. “Dashing through the snow, etc. and etc.” “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas,” just like the one when we slid off the icy road on the way to Midnight Mass, car snuggled in the snow-filled drainage ditch, three miles from town, a quarter to twelve, with no other Catholics living on our stretch of the gravel road.

We walked the mile home, skidding and sliding, Dad silent in his ice-encased thoughts. Back in the kitchen we drank hot chocolate and ate cinnamon rolls to warm frozen fingers. Dad fired up the old I-H tractor, stood me on the tow bar and chugged out to chain up and pull the Ford out of the ditch. Dad followed me home while I carefully steered the wheels between the ruts. T’weren’t nothing romantic about it.

Plug in the car. Scrape ice off the windshield. Shovel the walk. Bundle up like Michelin Man to go get the mail. Listen to the wind howl. Watch the snow blow horizontally, all the way to the Dakotas.

We need our myths or we would not wrap them around ourselves. When we are warm and cozy in the house, and the outdoor world is wrapped in white fluffy, we convince ourselves that it appears romantic and beautiful.

But, while I bask in Mexican sunshine and dine on a burrito, I wish you a snowless Thanksgiving. Please cut a chunk of turkey from the thigh and eat it for me. Oh, and a huge mound of dressing and a slice of pumpkin pie. Whipped cream? Yes, please.

If I were in Havre this week, I would feast at the Annual Havre Community Thanksgiving Dinner and love every minute. I miss you, my friends. But not the snow. Please, no snow.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected]/.