Snow Stories

by Donna Poole

I have a fireplace, cozy throws, warm drinks, and some snow stories to tell if you’re interested. We were snowbound this morning. This is the first storm when I haven’t bundled up and walked out through deep drifts. I’m not strong enough yet for that, but I did go from window to window, as excited as a child. I love freshly fallen snow undisturbed by footprints, shovels, or plows.

Even John, home from the hospital after knee replacement surgery, used his walker to hobble to the window and exclaim over how much snow fell overnight. If our neighbor hadn’t plowed us out, we’d still be snowed in.

Spring energizes the poets, but so does snow. Think of some of the songs, idioms, and hymns inspired by snow:

• “Let it Snow”
• Where are the snows of yesteryear? –a nostalgic sadness for time past
• Snow on the roof—white hair
• Snowball into something—growing quickly larger like a snowball being rolled
• Snowed under—overwhelmed with work
• Pure as the driven snow—a person of high integrity
• Get snowed—to be deceived
• Snowbird—someone who heads south in winter months
• “Whiter than Snow”

Here are a few idioms I didn’t understand until I looked them up. To “roast snow in a furnace” means to attempt something impossible. “Snow stuff” and “Lady Snow” mean cocaine.

John is allergic to codeine and before knee surgery he laughingly told the nurse anesthesiologist about the time he’d confused his words and had told a doctor he was allergic to cocaine.

“Some people are, you know,” the nurse replied, “and we need to know that, because we sometimes use it as an anesthetic.”

I thought he might be giving me a snow job, but he was serious, and a Mayo Clinic web search confirmed the truth of what he’d said.

We were so glad to get John home from the hospital before the snowstorm hit. When it started, I wanted to post Dean Martin’s version of “Let It Snow” on my Facebook page but I didn’t have time; I was too snowed under taking care of John. If you’re still reading this you’re either chuckling or groaning at the way these idioms are snowballing.

This storm’s snow piled up quickly and reminded me of the blizzard of 1978, but we didn’t have the winds we did then, and when you live in open farm country, it’s the winds that close roads. In 1978 the winds wouldn’t quit; they howled over the open fields, scooped up the snow, and dumped it on the roads. We were snowbound for three weeks. At first it was fun and cozy; we’d been way too busy, and it was wonderful reconnecting as a family. But, eventually we got cabin fever; we missed the outside world, church, and friends. We missed people!

We felt almost delighted when a snowmobile sunk in a huge drift in front of our house. On it was a person, a real live person! John helped him dig out his machine and invited him in for hot chocolate. We asked him what was open in the rest of the county. His reply was brief.

“Nothin.”

Another day a loud knock on the door startled us. We opened it to see a smiling, snow covered, half-frozen George Fee. He pulled off his gloves, shoved a hand in his pocket, and pulled out a wad of bills.

“Here you go, Pastor. I figured you might be needing some money. We haven’t had church in weeks, so I know you haven’t been paid.”

“But George,” John asked, “where did you get the money? And how did you get here?”

“Well, I just drove to the homes of church folks who lived on main roads and asked them, ‘You got any money for the preacher?’ And I got all this!” George grinned, proud of himself. “And how I got here was I left my car parked out on Squawfield Road and hiked in through the fields. There’s more snow on the roads than in the fields!”

We loved George, his wife Florence, Bud and Izzie, and all our wonderful early congregation. Most of them are in heaven now, having adventures we can’t imagine.

A few days after George came, we got more company. Like George, they left their car on Squawfield and walked to our house through the fields. Our good friends, Pastor Potter and Audrey, and their son came to visit. Pastor unzipped his coat and we all laughed. Their tiny poodle, Buttons, poked out his little nose.

The four of them, three humans and a dog, stayed for supper and spent the night. We stayed up late, laughing, talking, and playing games. Someone had the idea of rewriting the Luke 15:11-32 story of the Prodigal Son. We wrote it in the key of D. I can’t remember all of it, but we thought we were hysterical as we wrote, “The despicable dude departed his dad’s domain….” The later it got, the funnier we thought we were.

Where are the snows of yesteryear? Yes, I feel a nostalgic sadness as I tell you the story of the night we spent with our friends. We were young then and getting old seemed so far away. Now, those of us still alive have snow on the roof. Buttons crossed the rainbow bridge long ago, and Pastor Potter is in heaven.

That man could preach, and that man could sing! I’m sure he sang “Whiter Than Snow” many times, and preached Isaiah 1:18: “Come now, and let us reason together, saith the LORD: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.”

I miss the snows of yesteryear; so many people I love are already in heaven. The best really is yet to be, and I’m looking forward to it!

But before we go to heaven, anyone want to write the Prodigal Son in the key of C? I have a fireplace, cozy throws, and warm drinks if you want to get the party started.