Accumulation

When I was growing up, I looked forward to snow days with gleeful relish. I remember waking up and wishing as hard as I could before I opened my blinds, hoping to see the world transformed by swaths of fluffy white frosting. If it started to snow the night before, I worried that the plows would clear it away before morning, or, worse, that it wouldn't stick, but melt away silently in the night before we had a chance to enjoy it.

Snow days meant a surprise vacation in the middle of the week, hours and hours of unplanned time and a whole new landscape to conquer. My sisters and I would stuff ourselves into snowpants and parkas and dive bodily into the drifts, immune to the cold - or at least untroubled by it, in the face of so many adventures to be had. Icicle maintenance was always on the agenda. We would check the length of our favorite specimens, debate the best time for harvest, and build cushions out of snow in case they dropped too soon. Next we might explore the mysterious caverns under the bushes, where miniature icicles adorned the branches and a thick ceiling of snow lent a magical, bluish light to the space.

Of course there were always sculptures to be made: snowmen, snow angels, snow caves and forts. One winter, Dad was inspired to pile all the snow he shoveled from the driveway into the same place, so that the resulting hill nearly reached our (admittedly non-standard) basketball backboard. That glorious mountain allowed us to make a two-story cave with a slide on the outside.

One of our favorite snow activities, though, was making snow houses. These were not three-dimensional constructions but rather floorplans stomped into the yard that outlined palatial residences with as many rooms as our imaginations could muster up. Somehow these simple layouts were even more inspiring to the imagination than anything structural we ever attempted. I loved the feeling of having my own space, deciding where I wanted everything to go, and inhabiting the fantasy world that seemed to spring up around me from just a simple schematic on the ground.

When we moved to San Diego, one of the hardest transitions for me and my younger sister was the loss of our winter wonderland. Southern California had seasons, but they didn't seem particularly linked to the time of year, and they never preempted school. Worst of all, when December rolled around it didn't feel like Christmas. The Christmas tree in the living room helped, of course, but if you took one glance out the living room window, the mood was ruined by the view of a glimmering blue swimming pool surrounded by birds-of-paradise and tropical palms.

So we had to take matters into our own hands. Commandeering the kitchen and demanding absolute privacy, the two of us embarked on a top-secret mission to bring the snow to San Diego. I'm sure the secrecy was compromised more than once: we weren't exactly using a low-traffic area of the house. But on Christmas morning, when Mom opened the living room curtains, we were all treated to a panorama of arctic bliss. The swimming pool had become an ice skating rink, visitors warmed their hands at the jacuzzi, and concession stands sold hot chocolate at the patio tables.

As the years passed, I expected to get used to the Southern California climate: cool and cloudy in June, mild through the summer, windy and devilishly hot in the fall, and cool-ish in the winter. By the time I left California in 2009, I had lived there for more than 20 years. In fact, I lived in my apartment in Los Angeles longer than any other house I'd lived in up until that point in my life. Yet still I felt California's weather patterns were unnatural, and I longed for signs of the seasons, thrilling with each colored leaf or overhyped local TV weather StormWatch. Maybe there's a certain window of childhood during which your experience of the world around you shapes what you believe to be natural. I knew that I was romanticizing the snow, that driving in it would be a challenge I'd never had to face before, and that I was probably soft after years of living in a climate that rarely dips below 50 degrees. But I was ready for snow again, and when I had the opportunity to choose where to live (twice), I chose somewhere with four distinct seasons (both times).

Winter in Denver has, therefore, been something of a dream come true. It took its time in coming. November came and went with only a dusting or two of snow, and temperatures remained buoyantly in the upper 40s and 50s. But in December we experienced a few cold fronts from the north, and my wish for a landscape swathed in snowy beauty was granted.

Meanwhile, I've been doing some accumulation of my own, indoors. I have officially moved all my belongings here to Denver, and now am setting about the task of finding a place for everything. It's very strange going through boxes and boxes of stuff that was important enough to keep in storage but not necessary to my more spartan style of living in the past year. But I'm also getting some enjoyment out of defining my new living space, carving a new structure for my life out of the nebulous freedom I fell (leapt?) into a year and a half ago. I like it here. And I think it's going to stick.

Spring

Someday I will look back on myself at this moment with envy.  As I sit on the cliffs at Torrey Pines overlooking the vast ocean, I can't deny the beauty of my surroundings.  I can sense Spring waiting just beyond each bend in the path.  Like a child impatient to reveal the most exciting secret she's ever known, it quivers in the sleepy buds and crouches beneath each dusty bush.  The hillsides are poised to burst into color.  The air smells wild and spicy and free.

Spring is a moment of tension - a promise, but one filled with uncertainty.  Maybe there will still be storms and cold weather.  Maybe these first tender buds won't make it.  Maybe those baby robins will die in their nest in the next downpour.  When I was about 10 my family gathered in front of the big living room window to watch in awe as a vicious hail storm knocked all the new leaves off the trees and subjected the green shoots of the first brave bulbs to an unrelenting assault of ice pellets.  I doubted my parents' assurances that the leaves would grow back.  How could they be so sure?  Even the buds were gone - I couldn't imagine the trees and flowers recovering from such a setback.  Maybe we wouldn't have spring at all that year!

But the next season is inevitable, in spite of the struggles of this tenderest, most vulnerable time.  Sumer is i-cumin in, no matter what I do, and events will unfold and develop and change whether I will them to or not.  Maybe it's okay to release my grip a little bit and cast my fate to the wind.  This is not the last sunny day, and it won't be the end of the storms, either.  Might as well take a seat at the big window and enjoy the view.

Wyoming Sleep: a Christmas memory

The road hums beneath the tires.

Out the hatchback I can see the stars, more and more the longer I look.  I run my finger along the cold glass, feel the lines bump bump bump.  Next to me, Jenny stirs inside her Star Wars sleeping bag.  Her legs are in my space, but even when she's asleep she is the oldest.  On my other side Amy lies motionless and silent.  That only happens when she's asleep.  I don't sleep in cars.

Sitting up, I can see my parents in the front, talking in low, comfortable voices.  They are softly lit by the light of the radio and the dials on the dashboard.  Our headlights shine briefly on each detail of the landscape and then move on to the next.  Watching the snowy edge of the road, I play a game with my eyes.  I can either focus on one shape at a time, jumping from one to the next, or I can relax and watch it all blur together into one long, unending direction as we move forward, forward, forward.  It seems like the road will never end.

Lying down again I hear the hum of the tires and the occasional rhythmic bumping of the road.  I don't sleep in cars.

But the next thing I know Jenny is sitting up next to me, talking in an excited hush with my parents.  I can tell by the pitch of the tires that we are moving more slowly now.  Outside a town melts into sight, factories and bridges, then houses and schools.

A few more turns and then I know where we are.  We tumble out of the car, so cold in our pajamas and coats.  I recognize the creak of the porch door, the slap of the plastic covering the screens.  Now I can smell the wood, the paint, the old toys, home.  Not my home, but the home of my home.  Then they are there, still warm from bed, Grandma soft and Grandpa stiff and coarse.

We sleep on the floor in the living room under homemade afghans and flannel blankets.  The clock tock-tock-tocking in the background, our school pictures arranged on the wall.  Each one freezes a moment along the road.  First grade - flash.  Second grade - flash.  That smiling girl with the crooked teeth and the frilly blouse - is that still me?  How many more pictures will fit on the wall?  The cat curls up in the nativity scene with real hay for the manger and the Christmas tree spreads its fresh scent over us all. 

Tomorrow there will be curly-headed cousins, a tumble of inside jokes and My Little Ponies.  There will be laughing adults and cooking and eating and games.  And then there will be Christmas, with stories and wrapping and toys and music.  And one day I will sit in this room and look back on it all, a long coil of memory compressed back on intself inside these walls, now bare of pictures and the clock ticking tock-tock-tock...

But in this moment I close my eyes and feel the warmth wrap around me and sleep: Wyoming sleep.