My OperaSnow and Winter in the Fifties Part I
Tuesday, February 19, 2008 9:18:16 PM
Excerpt from 'Sledding Past the Lawyer's Office'
...Sledding was exciting when the yard was first plowed, especially if the snow had been deep enough to force the plows into leaving a nicely packed base. Snow plows of the era weren't as thorough as they are now.
We could almost fly down the hill in numbers, but we had to be careful at the end where the street was. Cars were always a danger, but luckily no one was ever hurt while I was a sledding pro on the schoolyard. We could safely sled on the Church side of the playground, but the ride was much shorter. The sidewalk curb and plowed snow near the side Church door ended the ride too soon. Not an exciting ride. The School side of the playground was the better choice. Indeed, if the snow was fresh, and I had a spotter, I could sled down the hill feeling the thrill of speed, continue across the street and up into our snow-covered driveway. What a ride! And I never yelled “Whee!”
But alas, a few days after the snowfall, especially if Sunday intervened, the good sledding was gone. With all the cars and additional plowing, the pavement started showing through. If we tried to sled, we'd have to twist and turn to keep on the snow portions. Obviously, you can't sled on pavement; it provides a rather abrupt stop. We moved to the cemetery hill [or maybe started there, depending on the group] where there was no traffic to wear away the snow base. Funeral processions never went down that narrow road after a snowstorm.
We played on mounds of snow, but we never built forts. The School yard was too public a place to expect privacy or security for our constructions. We didn't bother with building anything at home, either. It was too much like work there. The best places to start snow forts were the mounds created by snowplows or heavy drifts. And we didn't have any at home. The mounds appeared across the street when the playground was plowed for parking. While we didn't build forts, per se, we did create safety mounds for snowball fights or the inevitable king-of- the-mountain---leading to snow all over ourselves, hilarious laughing, and exhaustion. The School and Church property on a snowy day off was a veritable paradise for kid snow activities.
We had some good Saturday snow battles because the School area had hedges to complement the mounds. They were good for running battles, although we had to insure that the spot we ran to had snowball snow. You can't carry much ammunition with you for a running snowball fight. The School, its corners, and its stone fire escape bases lent themselves to great fight sites. If it was still snowing, the fun was doubled. Visibility was worse and sneaking up your opponent was easier.
During school hours, the nuns made sure we didn't have snowball fights, no matter how much fun they were. No one ever walked by wearing a top hat, so we never had that laugh provoking opportunity---and God forbid one of us would dare to throw a snowball at a nun or a priest. Of course if the snow were fresh and plentiful, there probably wouldn't have been school that day anyway.
Snow and it's effects come in many varieties under many names, especially in the far north, where the Eskimos have more names and nuances than Carter had liver pills. Yupik Eskimo has such offerings as: “qanuk” (snowflake); “nutaryuk” (fresh snow); “qengaruk” (snowbank); and “pirta” (blizzard.)
The best type of snow for making snowballs is powder snow with good moisture content. Grab a handful and pat and round one out in your hands, rather like making a meatball. The harder you squeeze, the more formidable the ball is for throwing. Most of the time, we didn't have enough time between peltings to make dense---or even round---snowballs. We made our ammunition quick and easy. Besides, we weren't out to hurt each other or set accuracy records.
That same slightly moist snow makes fine snowmen, though it's heavy for shoveling. Start with a snowball, roll it around the yard for a bit, and voila! One third of a snowman! Do it three times in varying sizes and you have a snowman's body. That's when the variations usually occur.
The only snowmen I was involved with were in our back yard. I usually made one with Mary Anne, often while it was still snowing. We had plenty of room to roll the balls around and build them up, but we often made them too big and
had a devil of a time moving them to where we wanted to build the snowman. The size of a snowman is pretty much limited to the strength of the builders in rolling the snow. Sometimes, partially built snowmen were the resulting pictures of frustration in the yard. On occasion, some kids built one on the School's grassy front space. But it was a lost cause. As soon as School reconvened, the snowman became a target for morning snowballs and didn't last long.
Granular snow was useless from our point of view. It was normally found in week-old snow and is a manifestation of frozen-melted snow becoming ice pellets. Icy snow, on the other hand, breaks off the pack in chunks and is impossible to form into a snowball----and throwing ice chunks was unappreciated. The dry, powdery kind (kanevvluk) usually arrives as a medium fall and is impossible to use in the making of snowballs---but it was fine for knocking a kid down in it and washing his face. Of course, I never did that. I remembered how many times my brothers had done it to me.
That dry, powdery snow, when fallen in the mountains, is excellent for the ski slopes. Skiers love it, especially when it's fresh and virgin. I tried to go skiing once---in High School. One snowy Saturday, a bunch of us drove up to Mt. Cathalia in New York. None of us had skis. We assumed we could rent them. The ride was a snowy one, but we didn't encounter any traffic accidents or tie-ups on the trip---either direction. But, high school gents of the period didn't normally run around with a lot of money in their pockets. This was the early sixties and the Mt. Cathalia Ski Center demanded a $50 deposit for each pair of rented skis. The ski slopes were inviting, as were the prospects of snow bunnies, but we didn't have the necessary money. Our ski team then adjourned to the lodge, found the fireplace, ordered a few beers [drinking age in New York at the time was eighteen], listened to “bossa nova,” and spent the afternoon relaxing amongst ourselves and with whomever entered the area---and we didn't have a broken leg among us.
The next year, the Mt. Cathalia Ski Center burned to the ground---and it never reopened. Go figure.
We had numerous running fights in the cemetery where the trees and the stones acted as temporary cover while we ran around pelting each other. We just had to be sure to stay away from any burials. A snowball fight really has no
winner or loser unless the poorer fighter gives up and runs home crying. The thrill is in the fight. Getting hit by snowballs was no big thing. We just didn't like a cold snowball in the face, especially if the snow was on the grainy-icy side. It was disorienting for enough time to maybe get hit again and again. In my case, summer experience with baseball helped a lot with my snowball accuracy. I especially liked my curves hitting the opponent on his noggin. Of course, on occasion the same thing happened to me.
No priests, nuns, or Church staff ever bothered us in the School yard or in the cemetery despite our obvious lack of sensitivity for the Church and its property. But we were kids, and we didn't really know that proper respect for the dead included giving up our cemetery snowball fights.
We were on more dangerous ground when we threw our bodies and sleds down our favorite cemetery road behind the church. The road on the left edge of the cemetery proper was a steep downhill path with a sharp right turn. If you didn't turn properly, chances were you'd be in the cyclone fence at best, the filthy brook at worst. As noted above, that portion of the road, though plowed, was never used by funeral processions in the winter because of its inherent danger.
We had a little natural banking which helped you turn correctly, but it wasn't an engineered bank, only one deposited by the cemetery snowplow and adjusted by us. You couldn't make an early right turn because those annoying gravestones were in the way. And you couldn't very well turn left unless you wanted to hit one of the pine trees lined down the hill. They certainly wouldn't provide a soft stop since their bases were trimmed up to about two feet leaving the unforgiving trunks. I suppose you could have turned left between the tree trunks, but that took skill and quick thinking. We were only kids.
Science tells us that, with the proper algae, we could have red, blue, salmon, or yellow snow. The algae create beautiful scenes, mostly in the mountains where people don't ski or usually tread. The snow doesn't fall in colors, but once on the ground with the right circumstances and algae, the colors appeared. But, we weren't in the mountains, we were kids, and our yellow snow patches were definitely not due to algae.
Since the school was probably closed and locked, and most of us didn't want to go home even for a few minutes, nature's call was in the natural environment, usually in the field to the left near the fence. Nobody could see us there.
The real tiring part of sledding was the constant walking or running back up the hill for another go. We needed a ski lift for sleds. If we were at the hill without a sled, we borrowed from each other or would go down the hill two to a sled, one person lying on top of the other, or one person sitting behind the other---but sitting on a sled was considered wimpy. That sitting system was often used for the younger or heavier kids---you'd agree to that with a heavyweight passenger or a scared–but eager---little kid...
...My sled did well on the hill because I could steer it. Some kids panicked and didn't try to turn, thus plowing into the snow and fence. Or they didn't place themselves properly when throwing the sleds down and fell off. Body language counts. Or they simply fell on the runway and let their sleds go. When that happened, we had to dodge the errant sleds. Still, I don't remember any serious accidents---just some bruises and scrapes. Hurt kids just sulked home to their Moms for fix-ups. In the fifties of our youth, there were rarely detours through an attorney's office. Times have changed.
Those days I'd wander home happy, tired, and covered with snow. I'd have wet mittens or gloves, soaked socks and a rosy glow on my cheeks. I was a bit of a mess, but after the undressing rituals, I rested warmly in front of the TV or sat in a wing chair reading. I relished the hot chocolate or tomato soup Mom kindly made for me.
The former, of course, was made from scratch since instant cocoa didn't exist. Mom would heat milk in a small pot, take a little out to mix with the measured amount of cocoa powder and sugar---maybe a touch of vanilla, and then pour the resulting dark chocolate mixture into the pot of milk. Voila! A little more heating and you had hot, drinkable cocoa...
...Sledding was exciting when the yard was first plowed, especially if the snow had been deep enough to force the plows into leaving a nicely packed base. Snow plows of the era weren't as thorough as they are now.
We could almost fly down the hill in numbers, but we had to be careful at the end where the street was. Cars were always a danger, but luckily no one was ever hurt while I was a sledding pro on the schoolyard. We could safely sled on the Church side of the playground, but the ride was much shorter. The sidewalk curb and plowed snow near the side Church door ended the ride too soon. Not an exciting ride. The School side of the playground was the better choice. Indeed, if the snow was fresh, and I had a spotter, I could sled down the hill feeling the thrill of speed, continue across the street and up into our snow-covered driveway. What a ride! And I never yelled “Whee!”
But alas, a few days after the snowfall, especially if Sunday intervened, the good sledding was gone. With all the cars and additional plowing, the pavement started showing through. If we tried to sled, we'd have to twist and turn to keep on the snow portions. Obviously, you can't sled on pavement; it provides a rather abrupt stop. We moved to the cemetery hill [or maybe started there, depending on the group] where there was no traffic to wear away the snow base. Funeral processions never went down that narrow road after a snowstorm.
We played on mounds of snow, but we never built forts. The School yard was too public a place to expect privacy or security for our constructions. We didn't bother with building anything at home, either. It was too much like work there. The best places to start snow forts were the mounds created by snowplows or heavy drifts. And we didn't have any at home. The mounds appeared across the street when the playground was plowed for parking. While we didn't build forts, per se, we did create safety mounds for snowball fights or the inevitable king-of- the-mountain---leading to snow all over ourselves, hilarious laughing, and exhaustion. The School and Church property on a snowy day off was a veritable paradise for kid snow activities.
We had some good Saturday snow battles because the School area had hedges to complement the mounds. They were good for running battles, although we had to insure that the spot we ran to had snowball snow. You can't carry much ammunition with you for a running snowball fight. The School, its corners, and its stone fire escape bases lent themselves to great fight sites. If it was still snowing, the fun was doubled. Visibility was worse and sneaking up your opponent was easier. During school hours, the nuns made sure we didn't have snowball fights, no matter how much fun they were. No one ever walked by wearing a top hat, so we never had that laugh provoking opportunity---and God forbid one of us would dare to throw a snowball at a nun or a priest. Of course if the snow were fresh and plentiful, there probably wouldn't have been school that day anyway.
Snow and it's effects come in many varieties under many names, especially in the far north, where the Eskimos have more names and nuances than Carter had liver pills. Yupik Eskimo has such offerings as: “qanuk” (snowflake); “nutaryuk” (fresh snow); “qengaruk” (snowbank); and “pirta” (blizzard.)
The best type of snow for making snowballs is powder snow with good moisture content. Grab a handful and pat and round one out in your hands, rather like making a meatball. The harder you squeeze, the more formidable the ball is for throwing. Most of the time, we didn't have enough time between peltings to make dense---or even round---snowballs. We made our ammunition quick and easy. Besides, we weren't out to hurt each other or set accuracy records.
That same slightly moist snow makes fine snowmen, though it's heavy for shoveling. Start with a snowball, roll it around the yard for a bit, and voila! One third of a snowman! Do it three times in varying sizes and you have a snowman's body. That's when the variations usually occur.
The only snowmen I was involved with were in our back yard. I usually made one with Mary Anne, often while it was still snowing. We had plenty of room to roll the balls around and build them up, but we often made them too big and
had a devil of a time moving them to where we wanted to build the snowman. The size of a snowman is pretty much limited to the strength of the builders in rolling the snow. Sometimes, partially built snowmen were the resulting pictures of frustration in the yard. On occasion, some kids built one on the School's grassy front space. But it was a lost cause. As soon as School reconvened, the snowman became a target for morning snowballs and didn't last long. Granular snow was useless from our point of view. It was normally found in week-old snow and is a manifestation of frozen-melted snow becoming ice pellets. Icy snow, on the other hand, breaks off the pack in chunks and is impossible to form into a snowball----and throwing ice chunks was unappreciated. The dry, powdery kind (kanevvluk) usually arrives as a medium fall and is impossible to use in the making of snowballs---but it was fine for knocking a kid down in it and washing his face. Of course, I never did that. I remembered how many times my brothers had done it to me.
That dry, powdery snow, when fallen in the mountains, is excellent for the ski slopes. Skiers love it, especially when it's fresh and virgin. I tried to go skiing once---in High School. One snowy Saturday, a bunch of us drove up to Mt. Cathalia in New York. None of us had skis. We assumed we could rent them. The ride was a snowy one, but we didn't encounter any traffic accidents or tie-ups on the trip---either direction. But, high school gents of the period didn't normally run around with a lot of money in their pockets. This was the early sixties and the Mt. Cathalia Ski Center demanded a $50 deposit for each pair of rented skis. The ski slopes were inviting, as were the prospects of snow bunnies, but we didn't have the necessary money. Our ski team then adjourned to the lodge, found the fireplace, ordered a few beers [drinking age in New York at the time was eighteen], listened to “bossa nova,” and spent the afternoon relaxing amongst ourselves and with whomever entered the area---and we didn't have a broken leg among us.
The next year, the Mt. Cathalia Ski Center burned to the ground---and it never reopened. Go figure.
We had numerous running fights in the cemetery where the trees and the stones acted as temporary cover while we ran around pelting each other. We just had to be sure to stay away from any burials. A snowball fight really has no
winner or loser unless the poorer fighter gives up and runs home crying. The thrill is in the fight. Getting hit by snowballs was no big thing. We just didn't like a cold snowball in the face, especially if the snow was on the grainy-icy side. It was disorienting for enough time to maybe get hit again and again. In my case, summer experience with baseball helped a lot with my snowball accuracy. I especially liked my curves hitting the opponent on his noggin. Of course, on occasion the same thing happened to me. No priests, nuns, or Church staff ever bothered us in the School yard or in the cemetery despite our obvious lack of sensitivity for the Church and its property. But we were kids, and we didn't really know that proper respect for the dead included giving up our cemetery snowball fights.
We were on more dangerous ground when we threw our bodies and sleds down our favorite cemetery road behind the church. The road on the left edge of the cemetery proper was a steep downhill path with a sharp right turn. If you didn't turn properly, chances were you'd be in the cyclone fence at best, the filthy brook at worst. As noted above, that portion of the road, though plowed, was never used by funeral processions in the winter because of its inherent danger.
We had a little natural banking which helped you turn correctly, but it wasn't an engineered bank, only one deposited by the cemetery snowplow and adjusted by us. You couldn't make an early right turn because those annoying gravestones were in the way. And you couldn't very well turn left unless you wanted to hit one of the pine trees lined down the hill. They certainly wouldn't provide a soft stop since their bases were trimmed up to about two feet leaving the unforgiving trunks. I suppose you could have turned left between the tree trunks, but that took skill and quick thinking. We were only kids.
Science tells us that, with the proper algae, we could have red, blue, salmon, or yellow snow. The algae create beautiful scenes, mostly in the mountains where people don't ski or usually tread. The snow doesn't fall in colors, but once on the ground with the right circumstances and algae, the colors appeared. But, we weren't in the mountains, we were kids, and our yellow snow patches were definitely not due to algae.
Since the school was probably closed and locked, and most of us didn't want to go home even for a few minutes, nature's call was in the natural environment, usually in the field to the left near the fence. Nobody could see us there.
The real tiring part of sledding was the constant walking or running back up the hill for another go. We needed a ski lift for sleds. If we were at the hill without a sled, we borrowed from each other or would go down the hill two to a sled, one person lying on top of the other, or one person sitting behind the other---but sitting on a sled was considered wimpy. That sitting system was often used for the younger or heavier kids---you'd agree to that with a heavyweight passenger or a scared–but eager---little kid...
...My sled did well on the hill because I could steer it. Some kids panicked and didn't try to turn, thus plowing into the snow and fence. Or they didn't place themselves properly when throwing the sleds down and fell off. Body language counts. Or they simply fell on the runway and let their sleds go. When that happened, we had to dodge the errant sleds. Still, I don't remember any serious accidents---just some bruises and scrapes. Hurt kids just sulked home to their Moms for fix-ups. In the fifties of our youth, there were rarely detours through an attorney's office. Times have changed.Those days I'd wander home happy, tired, and covered with snow. I'd have wet mittens or gloves, soaked socks and a rosy glow on my cheeks. I was a bit of a mess, but after the undressing rituals, I rested warmly in front of the TV or sat in a wing chair reading. I relished the hot chocolate or tomato soup Mom kindly made for me.
The former, of course, was made from scratch since instant cocoa didn't exist. Mom would heat milk in a small pot, take a little out to mix with the measured amount of cocoa powder and sugar---maybe a touch of vanilla, and then pour the resulting dark chocolate mixture into the pot of milk. Voila! A little more heating and you had hot, drinkable cocoa...
