New England is famous for its blizzards and endless winters through April. I am proud to be transplanted here since my mid-twenties, building up a tough skin when it comes to tolerating the elements. In my first season in Boston, sharing a Beacon Hill apartment with a new roommate, we experienced a ten day in a row cold spell of zero degree weather.
Yet, I stayed.
In my childhood, there were plenty of harsh winters in New Jersey. I never lived far enough from school to qualify for the school bus, and remember trudging through snow in the morning and afternoon for the one mile walk each way. If it snowed unexpectedly during school hours, then the walk home meant the misery of freezing toes and slush in my shoes.
In the early morning, the dads went outside before work to shovel the path to the sidewalk and scrape off the car. Snow blowers did not grind away and pollute the air with noise as they do now, just the steady scrape of snow shovels up and down the block. Maybe because I was younger, the snow seemed deeper.
If there was a family car, the fathers drove it to work and there was no one to pick up the children after school in inclement weather. But it was worth the feeling of arriving home at 3:30 and anticipating that I could soon take off my wet shoes and soaked socks. And the boots we had in those days – rubber galoshes that we pulled up, with great difficulty, over our shoes – never seemed high enough or tight enough to keep out the snow. And they certainly did not provide warmth.
Before the onset of synthetic and waterproof materials, winter outerwear – jackets, coats, hats and and mittens – was made of wool. We did stay warm in the cold, although not dry in the snow. The scent of wet wool was a characteristic smell in the house, including mittens lined up on the radiator. I remember one of my coats from elementary school, a plaid wool nipped in at the waist and knee-length, with a dark green velvet collar and buttons, very lady-like. Snowsuits kept toddlers warm, but not-waterproofed. Not that that any of this was considered a hardship, just “the way we were” in the 1950s.
I do remember ice-skating on the pond near the high school, a gathering place for all the young people from both sides of town, the old part with the town center beyond the high school, and the Sunnyside section where we lived, formerly farmland that was transforming into post-war split-level developments with new elementary and junior high schools, playgrounds, a modern branch library, and a brand new shopping center.
Someone always stared a “whip,” and if you were near the end, the momentum sent you flying off, crashing into other skaters or careening helplessly toward the edges. Then, we unlaced our skates on the park bench for the mile walk home, freezing our toes again. One day, a boy in the tenth grade vocational class, Billy, walked me all the way home from the pond, even though his house was in the other direction. Nothing came of it, but how could a ninth grade girl like me not feel special!
My children, native New Englanders, welcomed the snow, even pursued it, taking weekend trips to ski areas on a 6 a.m. bus from the Y parking lot; my son played ice hockey and became a black diamond level skier. I never overcame my fear of speed and heights and did not take to the sport personally, but instead enjoy hiking throughout New England in all seasons. There is a college in my area with an extensive system of trails around two large ponds for hiking, cross-country skiing, and snowshoeing that is open to town residents. Last fall, my daughter and I spent a week in northern Vermont, where I took on more challenging terrain and upped my game.
Thanksgiving is now ten days in the rear view mirror but it seems long ago as December gathers momentum towards the holidays that mark the mid-winter season.
My best wishes to my readers for a safe and happy month whatever your plans or celebrations, blessings for the New Year wherever you are, and fervent prayers for the well-being of our country.
snow day . . .
my daughters dancing
in slipper socks
I thank you for your vivid and wonderful memories of growing up in Linden NJ. Your words always transport me back in time to the specialness I f where we grew up. Thank you always
Great to hear from you Betsy, thanks for your comment. Last month I saw our schoolmate Anne in New York City.
My memory of slush, freezing toes and wet sox is unforgettable. It was a miserable walk home and of course my father had the car and no one picked us up. But still the memory is indelible and as miserable as I remember feeling, I wouldn’t trade that snippet of childhood for anything. Happy new year to all your readers.
Thanks Carol for sharing your similar experience, that must have been in Ontario.
Thanks for a wonderful story.
Thanks for following my writing!
I look back on the joy of growing up in Old Greenwich, Connecticut as so special. Such a lovely
place to spend your childhood with the magnificent four seasons, each providing such glorious opportunities. Marriage brought me to Boston, Massachusetts which, was a perfect place to raise a family, specifically in Wenham, Mass and eventually in Boxford. Thirty years ago, due to a job transfer, we found ourselves in Sydney, Australia where we still reside on the harbor overlooking the Opera House. A wonderful, very sane country. But even now, in my late 70’s, I find a yearning for New England. There is nowhere quite like it…
Thank you Jana for finding my blog and writing from afar, I am glad you are happy where you are (the closest I have been to Australia is Hawaii). Best wishes from Wenham!
Wonderful memories of a terrific childhood. Growing up in Linden allowed us numerous opportunities from the Garden State and nearby NYC. I still remember one snow storm when my sister, brother and I had to help my dad clear away the massive snow drifts in our drive way. I am so lucky to have these beautiful memories!!!!
I remember Linden like the back of my hand, never to be forgotten, but from what I hear, completely changed …. but I will keep writing about it!!! Best wishes for the New Year.
I grew up in Alabama. We got there too. Not much, but a few inches. Since I was the oldest boy, my Mother made me walk to the store, a half mile away, to buy her cigarettes. One time the store owner put two small paper bags over both my hands and used a rubber band to hold them in place. My hands stayed warm. He was so kind.
That is a sweet story, thank you for commenting.
So well I remember all you’ve so beautifully shared!
Kali
Thank you so much Kali for your appreciation!
In Buffalo (famous since 1977 for its snow), my brother Mike and I did the shoveling. After second grade, we walked to school, sometimes sinking three feet if we broke the crust of ice on deep drifts, other times walking backwards against driving sleet (really!), our ski masks caked with ice. We didn’t think much of it because we didn’t know any better. Instead, after school, we built igloos at home or skated on the local rinks and shallow ponds. It was also often below zero — one year, after two weeks of -10 to -20F weather, Niagara Falls froze.
I can’t say these were particularly fond memories, but growing up in Buffalo did make me regard with skepticism the panicked warnings from Boston-area weather forecasters about immense storms. In my 40+ years here, we’ve only had one winter that matched Buffalo’s.