Winter Summer

Shaved ice was a novelty in my hometown. Not because no one wanted it and not because it was hard to come by, but just because we didn't have it. The summers were too short and the available space for a shaved ice hut was limited. Where shaved ice is a fond summer memory for many children, shaved ice instantly draws to mind the wonderful images of winter for me.

First snow! Agenda--go to school.

(Colorado, brimming with its pioneer spirits and rough 'n' tough authority figures, never had snow days.) So.

Second snow--Saturday! Agenda....

First, wake up to soft winter light pushing its way anxiously through the blinds. When that light hit my face, it was different from sunshine in the summer or the soft glow that reflected off Autumn's moody leaves. It was a shimmery glow, almost as if to say,

"I finally got here! It took me all night and it was a long fall, but I'm here! Don't you want to come greet me!?"

Second, undress and dress. Off flies the wires of the electric blanket I so greatly cherished, there goes the XXL Shooting Team t-shirt from my dad's leftovers. On goes the long johns, the tights, the jeans, the sweatpants, the snow pants, the shirt, the long sleeve, the sweater, the jacket, the parka, the gloves, the mittens, the other gloves. 6 pairs of socks. 6 inches of face space for me to still wink and grin at the shimmery winter light, still beckoning me out the door.

Third, snow angels. 24, splattered across the front lawn, the driveway, the middle of the street and the porch. If guardian angels were half as present as snow angels, no one would ever get in car wrecks, and everyone would always make the right choices.

Fourth, snow ball fight. Good luck packing those little suckers with three pairs of gloves on. Thus

Fifth, frostbite.

Sixth, seventh, eight, ninth. Sledding, fort-building, snow man creation, exhaustion.

Tenth. Run inside, dodge mom's furious mop for the never ending tracks weaving through the living room and into the kitchen, on top of the counter to reach the cup and back out the door. It was always hard to find a heap of untouched snow, but once we did, we would dive in, holding our cups out to fill them with the soft, crystallite snow. Balancing a mound on top, we would dash back inside, recreating the tracks mom just mopped, and pour the tangy pink lemonade in the fridge onto the snow cap. The flakes would melt away, their shimmery gleam fading into a crystalline glow. The pile would compact itself at the bottom, floating in a little pool of over anxious lemonade.

Tangy. Cold. Sugary. Bland.

Shaved Ice.