Students of Winter

“When the student is ready, the teacher appears.” Silly me, I always thought the Buddhists were talking about ME being the teacher and some poor hapless youngsters playing the role of students. But a lot of snow and a little hill in my front yard turned that all around for me this week. It is my thousand-dollar hill, the mound of dirt leftover from the sewer pipe that cracked in my front yard earlier this fall. Landscapers say I’m not supposed to level it until it survives the winter because it is so apt to sink. So it sat like an ugly serpent this fall until finally the snow fell. Snow covers a multitude of sins, and it has somehow created a gently rolling, pristine mini-hill in our yard. Like a perfectly coiffed golf course in winter view, a far cry and a great improvement from the ugly mound of rocks and clay. It is now fully covered with pitch white snow, as my children call it, which came with a vengeance in the first week of January. We have no choice but to enjoy it.

And this is the place where my children come in. Because I felt I had a LOT of other choices for what to do with a snowy day where the thermometer did not top 17 degrees, it never occurred to me that playing on the mound of snow would be so much fun and so energizing. Reading, sitting by the fire, making soup: these are the things that come to my mind when the temperature falls. Purposely going out and frolicking in the white stuff? Not so much.

But my three little darlings see snow and only ONE thing comes to mind. PLAYTIME! The other day after school, they were clamoring to get outside. High of 17 that day and scarcely a mile from the winds of Lake Erie, I somewhat reluctantly began the process, barking out orders to three different soldiers with varying capabilities of attention. First, go potty of course. How many times have I completed the entire process of snow readiness, only to discover that a little love has to use the bathroom? Now, it is always first on the list. Then, they hurriedly don snowpants, boots, coats, hats and the ever-difficult mittens. I am called on to assist to various degrees, but somebody’s zipper is always stuck, or the thumb-hole of a mitten stubbornly unwilling to work. Finally, I open the front door and they tumble outside like so many flopping fish thrown on a slippery deck.

And then the magic begins. They grab sledding discs and a flimsy red plastic sled they insist on calling a toboggan and you would think they were at the top of K2 with all the excited chatter and the looks of delight on their faces. They spend an hour, at least, playing King of the Mountain and sliding down the two-foot hill. The neighbor kids come join in the fun and there are smiles all around.

I watch mesmerized from the window, wondering all the while how such a little hill can bring so much fun. It hits me then. These memories of childhood when I would play for hours on a pile of woodchips or wear myself out making snow angels in the yard. A trait I am glad they inherited, this delight in little things and the ability to make a mountain out of a mole hill. Literally. I miss it. That carefree feeling of days spent exploring and living in the moment. And I envy their delight.

The next day I know what must be done. We follow the same procedural frenzy to don our winter clothing, and then head to an actual sledding hill near our house. They love it. All three of them. I marvel as they giggle and fly down the hill and watch their little legs trudge their rosy-cheeked bodies back to the top. They find the wildest hill quickly and take turns in the aptly named ice chute. The baby (who is almost three and really not a baby anymore) rides down on his stomach and steals my breath. His is taken by a bout of giggles as he sails down the hill. The fun ends with hot chocolate all around and the promise of more sledding to come.

A few days pass and we start the madness again. Armed with snow pants and our sleds, we decide to hit a bigger hill in the area. Now mom is the one who is scared and the kids are delighted by every bump and wipeout into the snowy turf. We sled, all four of us, until our fingers are numb and our boots filled with snow. We laugh and scream all the way down the hill as we race. I always lose. Each time we reach the bottom, the youngest squeals “Again, again” before he is even out of the sled. We marvel in the twinkle of the usually-hiding sun on the snow, and my daughter spots an owl high in a tree. It is a perfect day.

Later we melt marshmallows in warm chocolaty milk and tell the tale of our sledding adventure over lunch that day. And it strikes me how thankful I am for the things my children teach me. I would have missed this fun, the exhilarating fear of flying down a hill, if it weren’t for them. Winter is good for more than just hibernating, I see. And we have the snow burn and sore bottoms to prove it after a day on the hills. And we have the giggles and memories to warm us on the coldest of days to come.