Hardy

The wind is slicing with knife-like precision on the prairie this weekend. We are enduring another ice and snow sludge mix. Driving is an adrenaline rush, not necessarily appreciated. No-nonsense tools are needed to scritch and scratch through the icy glaze on car windshields. Car doors are frozen shut, in need of some serious problem solving. Snowblowers toss plumes of fluffiness into the air. Snowplows muscle their way through streets and parking lots. Folks strike the turtle pose as they hunch their shoulders up and tuck heads downward in an attempt to minimize surface area exposure. Chunky, fur-lined boots displace fancy footwear and flannel is the preferred fabric.

But, as we say in the Midwest, "It could be worse." And it has been. Many of us old folks remember the winter of '68-'69. We had 43 inches of snow by the end of December and biting cold temperatures ensured that every flake stuck around. As a child on the farm, it was a winter wonderland. Prairie kids do not experience hills, but that year we did. Hills of snow. We took empty hog pans and tobogganed our way down piles of snow. We burrowed into snow mountains, creating warrens of protection. Piles of wet mittens steamed away near the stove. Boots struggled to dry out before the next go-around.

The best part, of course, was the school cancellations. We gathered around the kitchen radio in the morning, our eyes crusty from sleep but our ears sharply intent, waiting for the magic words, "No School." I am sure my mother was hoping for a different prognosis but she always kept her composure as another unstructured day stretched before us. We were only too happy to fill it with kid adventures and a little bickering along the way.

Travel was another snowland adventure. Vehicles did not have a lot of bells and whistles back then so we all took things slow and easy. Neighbors took the place of cell phones when you found yourself in a ditch or snowbank. Shovels and scrapers were standard equipment in the car. Our little country road became a one-way trail with eight-foot snow walls on either side. On one particular occasion, we met a cow sauntering down the trail. We had to back the car out of the road so Mr. Bovine could complete his wanderings. My husband (a town boy) recalls rendezvousing with his country aunt and uncle so they could get the groceries they needed. Well stocked pantries were necessary as we hunkered down for the next Arctic splatter.

Our cars, communication systems and roadways are much improved from the winter of '68, but some things never change. We do not get to pick our weather. Living in the upper Midwest is for the hardy, with a little foolishness sprinkled in. Good neighbors are priceless. Snowbanks make good sledding. And a warm pair of mittens makes the day go better.

Galvanized Hog Pan, a.k.a Farm Kid Toboggan