Such a lot of snow! It’s piled up inside the garden by the garage door, partly from my shoveling efforts. Hmmm…Was there enough to make a pseudo- ‘igloo’? (I’m an expert at creating this sort of structure.)
I’d just see...
It required hands, knees, and a garden trowel. Kneeling down on the snow-covered brick path I carved out a reasonable tunnel and packed the walls tight. Ta-da!
Well, truth to tell, it was more a wormhole. I wriggled inside on my belly. Darn. I would need to keep piling up snow on the spot further ahead, so I could form a decent sit-up place. Never mind: we’d get more snow soon enough.
Memories flooded back. All during my childhood my mother, after first securing my mittens with a long string that traveled from one mitten up my arm and around the back of my neck and down the other arm to its mate, would zip me into a thick, two-piece hooded snowsuit. Finally, she’d wrap a scarf around my neck, tug on my snow boots, and release me, a living Pillsbury Doughgirl, to waddle outside. All the youngsters in our neighborhood were similarly ‘stuffed:’ we could operate outside in freezing weather for long periods with little discomfort. (Kids with glasses suffered, though; they’d accidentally smear the lenses with their wet mittens, rendering them effectively blind.)
Below is some important ‘igloo’ advice I’d listed in my diary (rediscovered fifty years later in a moldering cardboard box in the basement):
1. Cut an 0 through the roof to look at the night sky.
2. Use a rolling pin to pack the walls.
3. To block the door hole, but not with snow, use a white rag.
4. Get a dishtowel to sit on to be less cold.
5. It’s lots warmer in igloos. No wind.
6. Pack a candy bar.
7. Push back hood to hear better.
8. Use the potty before starting out.
9. Poke very thin holes to hear better.
Each igloo ‘room,’ by the way, was only 4-6 inches thick. If one collapsed, no worries. (None never did.)
Anyway, when about seven or eight, I’d sneak into the breezeway, ‘mitten up,’ then zip into my snowsuit top- I’d left my snowpants on- creep outside in the early evening dark, and tunnel into the snowy mound I’d staked out. When done building, I’d cover the entrance. Then- after using a specially prepared skinny stick or butter knife to slice tiny slits through the wall, I’d sit inside and wait.
Once, when three neighborhood bullies gathered nearby to trade information, I found out that Billy B., the boy who lived two streets away, had deflated one of their Schwinn bike tires last fall. They made plans to wash his face with snow, then ‘pound him.’ I knew about that torture. These three were always pounding the kids who tried to protect their lunch box desserts.
A big conch shell, brought home from Guam by my soldier-uncle, yielded a low, haunting moan when blown in just the right way. When one of the bullies passed by I made it moan, causing the rascal to look nervously around, then hurry away in the twilight.
I’d listen to passing women discuss runs in their stockings, their babies’ behaviors, and once, The Farmer’s Almanac prediction that our very snowy winter would usher in a cooler summer.
Very occasionally a dog on his evening constitutional, leashed to a bored owner, would hike his leg on my snowmound.
Every overheard conversation was thrilling! I was right there, but invisible. It was instructive to hear our immediate neighbors air what my mother called ‘their dirty laundry,’ as they shoveled out their driveway. They had no clue that a pig-tailed busy-ears was right there, picking up fascinating swear-words and insults.
He: “That pot roast tasted like overdone cowpats, Marlene...”
She: “You’d know, of course, because you’ve sampled cowpats, moron!”
Struggling to keep from laughing out loud, I recorded his accusation and her retort in my diary, and remembered to ask my teacher about cowpats. She arched her eyebrows and told me they were “reconstituted grass.” My mother was specific. “They are cow poop. Just that.”
Finally though, one of my bigger hideaways was destroyed when a kid tried to sled down the mound. It promptly caved in, dumping the spooked urchin into the largish empty space. Rumors flourished that a boogey-man had been hiding inside, itching to snatch anyone that interested it. One bully-brat swore he’d heard it moan with hunger. (My conch shell!!)
On the fringes, I couldn’t help yelling, “It could have been a boogey woman! I was ignored.
Sometimes small children know things, if people would only listen.
I’d just see...
It required hands, knees, and a garden trowel. Kneeling down on the snow-covered brick path I carved out a reasonable tunnel and packed the walls tight. Ta-da!
Well, truth to tell, it was more a wormhole. I wriggled inside on my belly. Darn. I would need to keep piling up snow on the spot further ahead, so I could form a decent sit-up place. Never mind: we’d get more snow soon enough.
Memories flooded back. All during my childhood my mother, after first securing my mittens with a long string that traveled from one mitten up my arm and around the back of my neck and down the other arm to its mate, would zip me into a thick, two-piece hooded snowsuit. Finally, she’d wrap a scarf around my neck, tug on my snow boots, and release me, a living Pillsbury Doughgirl, to waddle outside. All the youngsters in our neighborhood were similarly ‘stuffed:’ we could operate outside in freezing weather for long periods with little discomfort. (Kids with glasses suffered, though; they’d accidentally smear the lenses with their wet mittens, rendering them effectively blind.)
Below is some important ‘igloo’ advice I’d listed in my diary (rediscovered fifty years later in a moldering cardboard box in the basement):
1. Cut an 0 through the roof to look at the night sky.
2. Use a rolling pin to pack the walls.
3. To block the door hole, but not with snow, use a white rag.
4. Get a dishtowel to sit on to be less cold.
5. It’s lots warmer in igloos. No wind.
6. Pack a candy bar.
7. Push back hood to hear better.
8. Use the potty before starting out.
9. Poke very thin holes to hear better.
Each igloo ‘room,’ by the way, was only 4-6 inches thick. If one collapsed, no worries. (None never did.)
Anyway, when about seven or eight, I’d sneak into the breezeway, ‘mitten up,’ then zip into my snowsuit top- I’d left my snowpants on- creep outside in the early evening dark, and tunnel into the snowy mound I’d staked out. When done building, I’d cover the entrance. Then- after using a specially prepared skinny stick or butter knife to slice tiny slits through the wall, I’d sit inside and wait.
Once, when three neighborhood bullies gathered nearby to trade information, I found out that Billy B., the boy who lived two streets away, had deflated one of their Schwinn bike tires last fall. They made plans to wash his face with snow, then ‘pound him.’ I knew about that torture. These three were always pounding the kids who tried to protect their lunch box desserts.
A big conch shell, brought home from Guam by my soldier-uncle, yielded a low, haunting moan when blown in just the right way. When one of the bullies passed by I made it moan, causing the rascal to look nervously around, then hurry away in the twilight.
I’d listen to passing women discuss runs in their stockings, their babies’ behaviors, and once, The Farmer’s Almanac prediction that our very snowy winter would usher in a cooler summer.
Very occasionally a dog on his evening constitutional, leashed to a bored owner, would hike his leg on my snowmound.
Every overheard conversation was thrilling! I was right there, but invisible. It was instructive to hear our immediate neighbors air what my mother called ‘their dirty laundry,’ as they shoveled out their driveway. They had no clue that a pig-tailed busy-ears was right there, picking up fascinating swear-words and insults.
He: “That pot roast tasted like overdone cowpats, Marlene...”
She: “You’d know, of course, because you’ve sampled cowpats, moron!”
Struggling to keep from laughing out loud, I recorded his accusation and her retort in my diary, and remembered to ask my teacher about cowpats. She arched her eyebrows and told me they were “reconstituted grass.” My mother was specific. “They are cow poop. Just that.”
Finally though, one of my bigger hideaways was destroyed when a kid tried to sled down the mound. It promptly caved in, dumping the spooked urchin into the largish empty space. Rumors flourished that a boogey-man had been hiding inside, itching to snatch anyone that interested it. One bully-brat swore he’d heard it moan with hunger. (My conch shell!!)
On the fringes, I couldn’t help yelling, “It could have been a boogey woman! I was ignored.
Sometimes small children know things, if people would only listen.