Our Frozen Rituals

The cold was like an invitation to adventure, and one we looked forward to, like the fourth of July, anxiously anticipating the first hints of snowfall like fireworks. As Christmas break drew closer, we watched excitedly, as the sky turned the color of old iron. Suggesting that old man winter would soon be slowly and methodically making his way across the corn field graveyards and settling in, as if he was giving us permission to begin.

Mom was beyond ready for us to be back outside again, yet, lovingly made sure we were prepared for the first playful bites of winter. She made sure we were dressed strategically from head to toe, as if we were soldiers getting ready for battle, safely tucked behind our scarves and hats. Oversized gloves capping our sleeves, guarding from Jack frosts', nipping. And there we were, setting out to battle winter's gusts and drifts, armed with shovels and sleds. Wildly howling at the sky, as the wind screamed out our names, one by one, as if checking a list. The scent of fresh pine wafted through the air of the frozen wood that surrounded that little pond, as the snow began to create our newest wonderland.

After hours of shoveling the snow off the ice to make a clearing, our winter escapades began. We quickly claimed our spots by etching our names, with our blades, into the ice, knowing full well, by the end of the day, we would be unable to feel our toes. But it was a sacrifice we were all willing and prepared to make. Toes be damned, winter MUST be experienced, memories have to be made. And made they were.

Ice skating was the first on the agenda. Laced to our kneecaps, we donned the old hand me down blades. We skated and twirled, hand in hand swirling one another around like snowflakes falling from the sky, occasionally crashing into the drifts surrounding our rink. Often starting the most dramatic snowball fights ever to be fought on the old Sheckler pond.

Then, it was hockey and sledding, including being pulled on a inner tube, behind the neighbors old snowmobile. Laughing and choking on diesel fuel forming plumes of smoke, like a magic show, and we were the main act on center stage.

Breaking for some much needed warmth, we all huddled around marshmallow filled rims of hot chocolate and cheese toasties. Mom greeted us grinning, knowing in a short time, we would be back out into the afternoon, exploring the woods that surrounded our property. It would be dark before we presented ourselves again, nearly unrecognizable, with snow heavily caked on our clothes like armor.

All smiles and chattering teeth, our lips now resembling the color of blueberries and our tender skin competed with the bold color of cran. Our frozen fingers and toes trembled like a leaves in the wind, followed by the bearing of new born pinkness that fell,exposed, not quite frozen, from our soggy suits of protection.

To this day, I can feel the brisk air on my face and hear the echoed laughter of those children on that tiny pond. And I long to be that little girl hearing my mom sigh, as she and dad chased us about that little farm house.

I never could have imagined I would ever miss that chaos, but what I would give to relive those rituals again.