The sounds of snow shovels and snow blowers, almost forgotten since we left Minnesota, brought familiar memories. I often felt surrounded by snow while growing up in north woods, close to the Canadian border. It usually fell around the end of October and remained on the ground, with gradual additions, until late in April. I remember at least once walking through some left-over snow in the woods in the month of May. Of course, it was under the perpetual shade of some trees, but it was there for me to slop through.
My family lived in the pristine woods, about a mile from the small town of Ely, and the snow remained clean and white throughout the long, long winter. We shoveled it, sledded on it, made lengthy snow tunnels in it, rolled it into snowmen and snow forts which protected us during snow ball fights. We ate it. There was no time to go back into the house for a glass of water. It was unsoiled, after all. After hours in the white stuff, hungry and tired, we stomped into the kitchen, scraped our boots, shook off our soggy mittens and unlayerd our heavy woolen snowsuits. The smell of wet wool filled the kitchen for a time, until the aroma of my mother's fresh bread overpowered all other odors.
Oh, the smell of hot chocolate and fresh, buttered bread, still lingers within me! The warmth of the kitchen and hot food took away the shivers from snow that sneaked in through cracks in our winter armor, or, perhaps soaked through the thick wool after so long in the snow. Back then we stayed out doors for much of the day, not being distracted by television or computers.
The darkness came early, and after dinner and dishes, there were board games, radio shows and books, books and more books. Boredom was an unfamiliar word. Life was full back in those days so long ago, in the remote forests of northern Minnesota.
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