Now I can see the snow from above, from eye level, from below. As a child, I could only gaze up at this snow globe on top of the high chest by the living room door. This I remember from the late 1940s.
We lived on a farm in Toledo, and had plenty of snow every winter. Daddy took me and my brother Robbie sledding at Ottawa Park, but I remember icy slush more than snow. I remember the feeling of danger, the suspense of the sharp runners; my cold fingers. I remember the smell of wet wool mittens and the creakly sound of galoshes flapping. I remember dusk-toned glee and weary shouts: "Children, it's almost dark! Just once more . . . this time I mean it."
I remember what could have seemed unfair, but didn't: the way it took moments to get to the bottom of the hill, but minutes to drag the sled back to the top. Did Daddy do that?
In Ottawa Park was an upside-down tree, some kind of pine. Robbie and I would ask for a detour so we could see the upside-down tree. I wanted to hide under it. When it was summer.
Meanwhile, Mummy was cooking dinner. At home, where it was warm. And when we got there, after we took off our buckled boots and wet snowpants, we would eat.