Holiday visit in the snowstorm 12-7-25

Every November in grade school music we blasted out the traditional Thanksgiving song. “Over the river and through the woods, To grandmother’s house we go. The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh, through the white and drifted snow!” We lived those words this Thanksgiving driving to see the grandkids. Hubby knows the way to drive the van through all the white and drifting snow. It looked so beautiful from the window. The snow that gracefully weighed down the tree boughs felt treacherous on the roads. We saw snow plows scraping snow off the road on the other side of the interstate from us. Every time we went to visit someone, we were “walking in a winter wonderland.” Personally, I wondered if I could babystep my way across the parking lot without slipping. I was not just walking, I was clinging to any railing, side of a car or wall to get safely inside and out of the winter wonderland. I wondered if I could go up snow covered steps without landing on my keister. I wondered how to keep warm in snowy northern Indiana. After four decades in southern Arkansas I no longer own a heavy winter coat and thick gloves. We also experienced “Dashing through the snow in a one horse open sleigh, O’er the hills we go laughing all the way” as we dashed down the Interstate. Well, actually crept along at 35 to 40 mph over icy, snowy roads. I didn’t laugh, I gasped when I saw the SUV upside down beside the road, the semi-truck and trailer leaning at an angle and the abandoned four door sedan on the median. I feared joining them. I used to enjoy snow magic that inspired Frosty the Snowman. At eight years old, I made snow angels so easily. At eight years past retirement, just getting down on the ground challenges me, let alone making snow angels and getting back up on my feet. The knees do not bend as easily as they once did. After one blizzard the kids and Hubby spent the day building an igloo. In retirement our fun never includes wanting to even go out to build Frosty let alone see if our snow covered car needs to be cleared with our non-existent snow scraper so we can go somewhere. I grew up with snow. I really did walk a mile to school through the snow. At the time our family lived just inside the village short of the bus route. If any home owners on my route to school failed to clear their walks, my friends and I tramped through snow pretending to be mountaineers. Easy to do when I had black rubber boots with metal buckles. Before putting on the boots I adeptly slipped my stiff tie shoes into plastic bread bags. The bag kept the stiff heel from catching. This year with no boots, my cloth sneakers soaked up the wet snow slush. Still we tried “Dashing through the snow.” That bouncy rhythm bounced us along like kids. In a minivan over the Interstate it felt more like creeping o’er the hilly roads screaming all the way. The tires struggled to pull us up a hill swerving all the way. Our horses slid toward the ditch way too often for my comfort. Spinning our way down the Interstate, I covered my eyes at least once as Hubby dared switch the van to the snowy left lane to pass one of those moving walls called semi-trucks. He assured me he could slide through the white and drifted snow to the grandkids. He did exactly that. I only breathed easy once I stood inside a building looking out at beautiful snow covered boughs.