“Is it sticky snow?” This is the first thing my brothers, sister and I ask when we awaken to a new snowfall. It is in the 1950s in rural Maine. Snow with lots of moisture is full of possibilities. Snowmen, snow forts, snowball fights and snow sculptures.
We are elated when it is sticky snow, and we bundle up in our snowsuits, hats, mittens and boots and waddle out into the frosty air.
Gleefully, we fall backward into the deep snow and make snow angels.
Building a family of snow people, we start with a small snowball and roll it into the sticky snow, packing it down and zigzagging our directions. It becomes larger and larger as the layers of snow adhere to it.
We love this magic process.
A mother, a father and a child are built from snow of the perfect consistency for the job. Coal for the eyes and carrots for the noses are put into place. We add colorful hats and scarves for our jolly little snowflake family.
Next we build two snow forts. We have perfected a design that no army can penetrate. We shape tightly compressed snow into a three-sided structure about 5 feet tall, with peep holes to spy on the enemy. Built facing each other, they are about 20 feet apart.
We stockpile our ammunition – mounds of snowballs – and the battle begins. It is the girls against the boys.
My sister and I devise a strategy and cause a diversion so we can launch a surprise attack from the rear. When we are behind enemy lines, we pelt them with snowballs. We take over the fort. Proclaiming victory, we raise our flag: a red-and-white-striped woolen scarf. My brothers contest this, but brains win out over brawn.
Time to build a snow sculpture. We shovel out a 12-foot-by-12-foot square for our sunken living room. We furnish it with a couch and some chairs made out of tightly packed snow. The couch and chairs are cold on our bottoms, but we pretend to visit and chat a little. Deciding we need a kitchen, we sculpt a table, chairs and a stove. Our frozen sparkling white rooms are dazzling in the winter sun.
After this lively game, we are winded and our mittens are wet; our woolen snowsuits are sagging and damp.
Time for lunch. As we troop in, our mother brushes the snow off us with a broom, and we shed the wet clothes and huddle around the wood stove for warmth. Vegetable soup is simmering on the stove, and the kitchen is warm and steamy with a savory odor. We have soup and hot chocolate.
Oh, the joys of sticky snow.
I am still entranced by the beauty after a snowfall, when viewing a glistening white winter wonderland.
But now that I am older and a homeowner, sticky, heavy, water-laden snow is not so joyous.
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