NEWS FROM THE HILLS
Dear Cousin,
Winter weather has descended upon our hills today, with snow that has steadily fallen since morning. Sometimes it was fine flakes that came straight down from the heavens, and then it would change to big, fluffy flakes that drifted to and fro as they settled upon hill and meadow alike. Mom always remarked that “Old Mother Goose is shaking her feather bed,” and indeed it looked like floating feathers as they gently came down.
It has been a long time since we got a really big snow, one that covers up the barbed wire fence and leaves only the tops of the fence posts sticking out. I have heard several old timers (folks my age) remark recently that “we don’t have big snows like we had when I was a kid.” It does seem that way, and my mother says that when she was a young girl living down on Big Laurel Creek, that stream would freeze over and not thaw out until spring. When Big Laurel first froze over, her father (my Grandpa Hooge) would take an axe and test the depth of the ice before he allowed the children to skate on it. After the winter season of iceskating, spring rains would come and raise the creek. The ice would break up then with a thundering, crashing sound as it headed toward Elk River. The cry would go up, “The ice is going out!” and all would rush to view the spectacle. No, I’m afraid we don’t have winters like that any more.
The last big snow we had (was it March 1990?) came fast and furiously, and left almost as swiftly. The depth of the snow was as high as our front porch, and it was a delight to play in, as the temperatures were so mild. Matthew took a swan dive off the porch and promptly sank out of sight. He came up snow-covered and laughing. Our grandkids would relish a snow like that. We loved a good sledding snow when I was a kid. The snow would pack down and freeze over, making a perfect surface to slide. Grabbing our homemade sleds, a large piece of cardboard, or anything we could find to ride down the hill, off we would go. A scrap of old linoleum made an excellent sled, and would go faster than the wind. Of course these impromptu sleighs couldn’t be steered, and many times we would wind up in the creek or ducking dangerously under a barbed wire fence.
I wonder now how we kept from getting killed. The Lord must send special guardian angels to protect foolhardy youngsters, or we wouldn’t live to tell the tale. When the dirt road got so bad that there was no traffic at all, we were allowed to ride our sleighs off the “Church Hill.” If we went all the way to the top of the hill, we could ride off for over a mile. There were a couple of dangerous curves to navigate, and many times there would be a pile-up. Still, those old sleighing parties at night with the neighborhood kids, the roaring bonfire toasting one side and then the other, the spills, the fun and laughter — these are unforgettable memories.
There are other unforgettable memories also, like feeding the livestock in freezing weather, slogging through the ice and snow in gumboots to the haystack in order to dole out the hay with a pitchfork. Taking care of the chickens in winter weather was another story. The water in the trough invariably froze to solid ice, and would have to be thawed and dumped in a huge lump and fresh water supplied. Those of us who relied on a pitcher pump for their water know how it feels to carry zinc buckets of water to the house. The pump handle was North Pole frigid, and if we were lucky enough to find a pair of mittens, they were always wet from numerous snowball battles. The wet wool would freeze fast to the pump handle in seconds. (No, Larry, you don’t stick your tongue on the pump handle!)
It was always my luck to overfill the buckets and spill the icy water down my skirt tail and legs. The trip from the pump to the kitchen seemed a mile long, until we could unload the water buckets on the table and plunge the zinc dipper into one of them. The weatherman is calling for the possibility of heavy snow, and we may get a taste of an old timey snowfall from yesteryear. At least we won’t have to hay the cows, water the chickens, or carry water from the pump. And I didn’t even mention those nocturnal trips to the outhouse, where the seat was cold, the pages from the Sears and Roebuck catalog were cold, and plodding through the ice and was very, very cold. Did you ever wonder why people call the past, “. . . the good old days?”
love,
Cousin Alyce Faye
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