Things I Forgot I Knew :: Winter Nights

We went to Traverse City this past weekend to visit parents. I took the dog outside to wait for my parents to arrive at the in-laws - a pre-holiday get-together, since we won't be there for Christmas.

It was only six o'clock, but it was dark already. The ground was covered with several feet of snow that had been dumped the week before, and teensy cystals were sifting down from the night sky - a step more frozen than the drizzle it would be if it were warmer. I stood and looked into the dizzying swirl of snow; in the street lights, it sparkled like glitter.

As I stood there, in that moment of silence and nature, I remembered how much I loved being outdoors on winter nights. I was run through with a feeling of comfort, like being wrapped up in a cozy blanket. It seems contradictory, I know, to be out in the cold and say it felt like that, but the winter nights have always had that affect on me. With no traffic around, there is such a deep silence in a night where people are all indoors, having shoveled and salted their walks earlier, no one comes out at night unless they have to. No one is barbequing on back porches, no kids riding their bikes up and down the streets, no late night walkers - or at least very few - and their crunching steps become swallowed up into the night air as soon as they pass by. The blanket of snow upon the earth must act like some kind of giant sound absorber, but it's also what gives me that sense of being wrapped up inside of it all, comforted by its thickness, regardless of the fact that it's as cold as a popsicle.

Not something you'd want to wrap yourself up in, you might say, but as a child, I loved to dead-drop onto my back into a fresh fall of snow, watch the plumes of cold crystals swirl above me and settle back onto my bare face. I would sit unbreathingly still and watch the icy flakes rest and then melt on my lashes, feel the trickling transformation of ice to water on my cheeks. I loved that moment of stillness, of quiet comfort wrapped up in the snowfall, just before my arms and legs would swing robotically back and forth and I would try as gracefully as possible to rise and step out of the angelic impression I had created.

When I was older, I walked the snow lit streets late at night, especially around Christmas. Even during my I-loathe-Christmas phase, I still enjoyed walking alone at night (usually sneaking smokes) and seeing the holiday lights. There is no other time of year those lights are more beautiful than in the winter, and never as beautiful as when seen against and through the feet of snow that inevitably will fall each season.

Three blocks from our house was the local skate rink - the Thirteenth Street rink - right next to Thirlby Field - the high school sports area. It was a grass lot that, thanks to days of carefully channeled water, transformed into a large oval rink each winter. A rickety wooden warming house sat at the nearest end, with outside benches where we could change out of our boots into our skates. The warming house had an "In" door on the right, worn wooden floors, benches along the wall, and an "Out" door on the left, so we could enter, walk through and exit in an orderly fashion. A black iron wood stove sat in the center with a worn wooden rail being all that separated children walking unsteadily on their skated feet from falling in and becoming a sizzling ice cube against the hot metal. There was also a very fat man who tended the fire, harrassed you a bit if you sat too long, and joked around with the parents and older kids who weren't afraid of his largeness.

While I loved going to the rink during the day, I also loved to go at night, when the warming house was closed, and the rink lights were off. Even with the traffic of Thirteenth Street just over the snow bank, there was a vast silence in the night sky, which seemed to hover black and starry so close to earth. I would skate for hours, until my feet and fingers and thighs and butt were all completely numb. Only then, reluctantly, would I fumbly unlace the skates and slip back into my ice-cold boots. I would have to shuffle-walk all the way home, the circulation never quite returning to my extremities until I had been inside for at least a good half-hour. And still, I would wish I could have stayed longer.

I practice creative visualization with my students - especially my developmental writers - as I try to help them find ways to relax when faced with writing assignments or exams. It also helps them work on their descriptive writing, as I have them "go to a place" where they feel totally comfortable and safe. One of the places I visualize is a skating rink out in the middle of a wooded grove. There are snow banks pushed up all around it, but I can see pine trees surrounding the area. It's night. It's quiet. There's a gentle snow falling and all is dimly lit by the light of the moon. I am skating, effortlessly gliding around on the glassy smooth surface. And while I feel the cold on my face and in my lungs, I am warm. Through and through, I feel a sense of security, of comfort, of calm and of belonging.