December 1, 1999

Snow wasn't always a four-letter word

By GARRET LEIVA
Herald editor
       There was a time when snow wasn't a dirty word. A time when those first small tabular and columnar white ice crystals of the year were greeted with shouts of joy instead of four-letter grumblings.
      Of course, when you're 7 years old snow is not the root of all winter evil, it is the root word of joyous nouns like snowman, snowball, and snow fort. It is also the root cause behind two other delightful words - school closings.
      Flurries, squalls, storms, lake affect; it mattered little what the weatherman called it as long as it meant a day off from fractions and long division.
      Winter mornings would find me laboring over a bowl of sugar-laced Cheerios, my head cocked like the RCA dog as the radio/8-track player informed me of my fate. When the list of area closings reached the letter 'H,' the chewing would cease. Some days I'd lose my appetite and end up on a school bus, other days I'd pour myself another bowl.
      Admittedly, even during my young, idealistic snow days, I could only tolerate so much frolicking and cavorting about in the white stuff.
      Sledding down a gravely ditch embankment usually reached its zenith of frivolity after the first half-hour and my plans for a Godzilla size snowman were often abandoned at the big toe. Besides, you can only tromp around in snow-packed, gravity-ladened Moon Boots for so long before uttering those two words snowed-in parents fear: "I'm bored."
      Snow day boredom is partially the reason why the bridge of my nose bears the faint scar of a metal snow shovel. My total ignorance of the laws of physics also played a minor role. Now some might wonder how my proboscis and a steel shovel crossed paths in a six-foot long snow tunnel. The answer is simple: I stuck my nose where it didn't belong.
      "Hey, tell me when the shovel comes through," were the last words I heard from my sister, the tunnel project coordinator and my childhood Svengali.
      Within seconds I saw stars; the Willie E. Coyote/Loony Tune variety. Then came the nose bleed no tissue box could stifle. My sister ran inside to tell my mom, who was talking on the telephone.
      "I think I've killed Garret," screamed my elder sibling. I believe mom said she'd call back later.
      Although it required far less bloodshed, being pushed off the King of the Hill summit by a girl named Sue proved an equally traumatic snow-related accident.
      During my elementary school days, the school maintenance staff would plow snow from the parking lot into a large pile that by February resembled a polar ice cap. While discouraged by the playground aides, every recess an impromptu game of King of the Hill would escalate and snowball on the mini mountain..
      One of those battling to retain their crown each day was Sue, a tomboy so tough she could have shaken down the principal for milk money. Unfortunately, my third-grade "Husky" boy's clothing section body got in her way one day and I was promptly given the heave-ho. I spiraled down toward Earth, not unlike the Jimmy Stewart dream sequence in "Vertigo." I landed with a cartoonish thump, my snowsuit and dignity buried in a snow drift.
      Nine years ago, while home on holiday vacation, I saw Sue standing in line at the gas station with two young children. I let her cut in front of me.
      Despite how it sounds, being tossed off a two-story snow pile or smashed in the face with a snow shovel has not left me bitter about winter. Although, I'm not overly excited about wrapping up in 13 layers of clothes to shovel 60 feet out to a mailbox full of bulk rate Christmas cheer.
      Perhaps I should curb my cynical tongue regarding the first snow fall of the season. Or just stick it out and catch a small tabular white ice crystal or two.
      Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail at gleiva@gtherald.com.