On The Coldest Night of the Year

Outside my window, tonight, heaps of crumbly snow stand like arctic Easter Island statues: stout, sturdy, with mysteriously stoic expressions in the hollows and shadows of hardened snowflakes.

They are buffers against the usual night noises—cars rushing down side streets, sirens, horns, the whirling of people hurrying their lives away. These snow creatures pout in the icy winds that sway the cars in the parking lot.

The snow drifted against my patio doors reminds me of January of 1978. There was one of the worst blizzards in Northwest Ohio that year. Our electricity did not work at our house. We put blankets over a car table, used flashlights to illuminate our faces, and huddled together against the bitter cold house. I was three years old; my brother must’ve been eight. My parents were younger than I am now.

I remember that our neighbors let us stay over one night. It must’ve been much too cold for us to snuggle together in bed. I cannot imagine my father agreeing to such a generous proposal unless my mother shamed him into it, or it was just too darn cold to be proud.

During the day, we built snow forts with several different interior rooms. I crawled and giggled my way throughout one “snow house,” visiting each room as my snowpants swished and mittens dampened. The enjoyment was short-lived. My mother banned us from playing in it too much lest it should collapse on one of us. Still, as I sit here, the corners of my lips curl into a smile. The size of that snow fort still tickles me.

One of my other favorite memories is about as simple as they come. It probably explains why on days like yesterday and today—heavy snowfall, knee-deep snow, stinging cold air—all I want to do is go out into it. Not in a car per se but definitely by foot. It is one of my favorite times to go for a walk.

I’m almost positive the memory I am about to describe happened during the aftermath of the Blizzard of ’78. I think what prompted the occasion was the need for some sort of supplies—something my father must not have had at the hardware store where he worked.

My father, for whatever reason, said he was going to walk to the K-mart store. As an adult thinking back, I suppose the distance isn’t more than two miles or so, but it seemed like the other side of town when I was little. Being a daddy’s girl, I’m sure I begged to go. We both bundled ourselves with scarves, hats, gloves, coats, and snowpants (at least for me), and off we set.

I always say that “my people” were pilgrims. I come from “pioneer stock.” My family claims Peregrine White—the first pilgrim child born in the New World.

My people were restless. My people were not afraid to pick up and start over in a new land. My people craved adventure, rejected the stagnation of a “comfortable life.” They had a thirst for fortune. They were hearty with an emotional and mental toughness that I cannot fathom. It must’ve felt like packing up and moving to the moon.

And, so, in the spirit of “our people,” my father and I set off on our journey to K-mart in the snow.

I don’t remember being at K-mart, but I remember that journey…

After a while, probably on the way back, my father carried me part of the way.

When we returned home, I felt like I had accomplished something so momentous. I had gone with my father to K-mart on foot.

I love to walk. Sometimes, I will start walking without any clear destination in mind. I’ll stroll down side streets just to see where I will end up and what I might find.

Tonight, I feel the restless call of this night. When I think of my life until this point, I feel the stirring of “my people” woven into the genetic tapestry I recognize in the mirror. I have moved eight times in the last eight years: nomadic, transient, at times so exhausting.

It is the coldest night of year tonight. Only my heater crackling and floorboards snapping can be heard.

The night’s darkness brings a sting, and I sit here, lost in the revelry of childhood memories and the future daydream of a time when I can rest calmly on a snowy day.