Ah Yes, I Remember It Well

Last year I lamented the absence of snow. We had had no snow to speak of this year, until last night. Down it came, and schools in Grosse Pointe were closed today. By 9:30 this morning Ron and the kids were over to shovel the front walk for us. The three boys shoveled, while Eleanor came inside in the warm. Not in deference to her gender, you understand, but in deference to her age. After a while, everyone trooped inside for hot chocolate.

So what is it I remember? Not how truly helpful children can be, not what fun they can have in the snow—but what a royal pain boots and snow pants and mittens and caps and jackets are. However well you dress children before they leave the house, they come in with dripping pant legs and with boots full of snow. Snow has seeped under cuffs and into gloves, and as soon as the small folk pile through the doorway, the floor is littered with sopping garments. All that explains the contraption that Ernie built and which remains in our furnace room. It is a rack with dowels protruding from every cross bar, perfect for drying small snowsuits. It hasn’t got much use of late, but Elizabeth, remembering its function, requested one from her dad last year. It stands inside the door from her garage, ready for another generation of small children.

But the memory that is truly burned into my brain—spending ten minutes bundling a kid in snow gear, sending him outside with a sigh of relief and having him (or her, I should add) bang in the door fifteen seconds later, saying, “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”