Thinking about the slippery floor at McDonalds today started me thinking about the old ice pond back home in the early days. I am talking about the year 1958 when we were all enjoying this month of January beneath five or six feet of snow.

Maybe it wasn't that deep but it seems like it when you are only three feet tall. The bigger guys would get out early and shovel off the pond so they could spend the next ten or twelve hours skating or playing hockey. There would be a fire somewhere nearby and something good to eat. And I would watch while they raced back and forth on the ice chasing a puck and enjoying themselves immensely. They smashed into each other and the ice while I limited my forays to the perimeter of this happy violence. There is a certain kind of pain that leaves us happily lurching forward for more. Or maybe it is just the cold numbing us to the core. Still I was only eight and had recently returned from a month long stay in a nearby hospital for a kidney infection. I was content to watch and enjoy from a small distance.

This was life in a small town in Central Massachusetts back before the Beatles came to town and everyone's mom stayed at home. Their job was to supervise little guys like me who would sometimes did things requiring quick medical attention. It was not a daycare environment.

And then there were the chores. Shovel all of the snow out of the driveway before Dad returns from a hard day at work. Make sure to shovel it wide enough so he can open the door of his car.

I tried. But the higher the snow bank the less wide would be the path. It was simple math. I tried to tell him one time as he tried to open his door into a pile of snow. Bang. Slam. Bang. He seemed to become more determined with each effort.

I was always amazed by how much energy he had at the end of his hard day as he tried to find his way indoors. And we would eventually follow him when it started to become dark and the cool air suddenly became heavy and silent. And much colder. We would sit next to a radiator and slowly melt in a painful ritual that left us wondering if maybe we should have stayed outdoors.

My three sisters and myself and my parents would settle in for the evening around a television that looked remarkably like something I recently saw in the Boston Museum of Science.

Sometimes it would start to snow again as we looked out the window. All of our tracks were soon covered and, of course, the driveway was once again filling up with

• 1
• 2
• next page >>

---

Add your voice

Know something about Memoirs: Winter?
We want to hear your view. Write now!