Happy Christmas from Frostbite Falls

Snow falling this morning, coming in sideways on southeast wind. I walked to the Post Office and the coffee shop in old downtown, a warm twenty degree stroll, enjoying the pleasant sting of flakes on my cheeks and their cold taps on my eyes. Everyone is outside it seems—snow shovels, snowplows, snow blowers, snow scrapers and pickup trucks with mounted blades—all seeming to have as much fun as frolicking children making snowmen and snowballs. Yet I see not a single snowman, no snow forts, no snow angels, and even the snowmobiles are silent. All such activities stop for the all-important community effort of snow removal.






A man remarks at midday that the job is complete for now, to which his eightish son says, “But Dad, I snow blowed half of it.” And another man says, “It’s not so bad with six inches. It’s when ya got a foot that it’s harder.” I felt so bad not participating that I got the broom from under the stairs and took five minutes out of important activities to sweep the snow from my deck and steps. The forecast calls for three days of snowfall. I am thrilled about this, but must restrain my excitement; everyone worries that too much effort will expend in removing snow and that the piles will get too big and too much in the way.



I did not post anything yesterday, so let me tell you about the old snow that now lies about six inches buried. It was not silent under my boots as today’s new snow is. Something about snow that has been around for several days gives it a musical quality that new snow has to learn. Walking on old snow sounds like Styrofoam boots walking on Styrofoam. It still kicks up and carries in the breeze like new snow or like dust in the desert, but it also plays musical notes. I think the tones are lower at higher temperatures. Yesterday, it screeched under my skis and squealed as my poles turned to push away—odd sounds for snow to make. It was twenty degrees, ten degrees warmer than last time I skied the Blue Ox Trail, and the difference allowed me to go without a face mask.

This evening, I attended the Candlelight Eve at Zion Lutheran Church. I didn’t know that this tradition would quadruple the normal Sunday attendance and that everyone dresses up. Women walked through six inches of new snow from their cars to the door in pumps, wiping their feet and stocking legs with a cloth upon entering. I can only imagine how the snow felt on their feet, sliding in over tops of their pumps. I came in insulated clod-hopping boots, as always, and slid into my dress shoes on arrival. I wore nice pants and felt underdressed.

I came early and had to ask several people if empty seats were saved. Families sit together; a son or daughter comes early to save seats. Finally I sit by Julie, also by herself. This Christmas Eve tradition is part of the unity within families, I see it on faces of children and grandmothers, love and friendship, ties and commitment.