I grew up…well, maybe it’s better phrased that I spent my formative years somewhat east of Los Angeles as the drunken crow flies, in the desert that hugs the knees of the Sierras as they gouge their way toward the US border.
It was just a small town invented to feed the rapacious appetite for the mundane for a sea of scientists, huddled behind chain link fences and guard posts, intent on discovering even better ways for ending civilization for the other guys. The cold war was still going as hot as the thermals rising off Dry Lake in the middle of July, and while the place was filled with important people busy doing important things we slipped their notice and turned to our environment. The dry lake and the desert across the street became our playground.
The clay that formed the lake bed was worn as soft as talc by the tires of the dirt and motocross bikes crisscrossing it year round and in the spring, if we were lucky, there would be enough rain to fill it with half a foot of water–the clay holding it like a bowl–the powdery clay becoming slick enough that bare feet would sip and slide in a joyous mimicry of skating. We lived in that muck, stirring up the brine shrimp that hatched only to live a few short weeks wriggling amongst our toes before evaporation sent them into muddy hibernation.
During the winter months just a few inches froze across the entire lake creating a wonderland of ice, tempting us to try to apply our skating prowess from under the water with wild head-cracking results. Finally defeated we’d devolve into a wild ice-stomping melees–laying waste to all the ice formed around it’s ancient bank. Ice breaking remains a guilty pleasure.
But come winter, the high desert is dry and bitterly cold and for the most part the ice is black and unfriendly or relegated to the drainage found in the gutters. And walking to school without the distraction you can’t help but suffer under a bleak wind harsh enough to make your ears ache and your wet hair freeze. And while scraping piles of frost onto your desk during first period is always fun, in our hearts it was the elusive white stuff that brought hope to the season.
The few snow showers that did appear always seemed accidental–arriving unexpectedly as if taking a wrong turn off the highway like some Los Angeles Ski Bunny on her way to Mammoth mistakenly taking the right into town when the steakhouse she’s jonesing for is a couple miles further down the road.
While in this scenario it’s the Denny’s owner who’s surprised by the directionally challenged traveler (extra hot coffee for the snow storm in the corner booth), it’s the kids who will be launched into orbit with joy–licking up every snowflake they can get their tongues on while the flurries fly.
And if the white stuff continues to fall through the silent night there is the slightest possibility it will stick…at least for a few precious hours in the morning. And with it, there’s a chance to scrape together a tiny snowball…even the quartz sand sticking all over it like sesame seeds on a dinner roll can’t diminish the joy in our hearts as we freeze, our hands and fingers wet from the slush.
It won’t take much and with any luck at all a snow day will be called and with it an almost instantaneous pajama’d stampede across the town commences towards cupboards and pantries, tiny hands grabbing for the battered boxes of Swiss Miss our parents have stashed for just this eventuality.
Snow Day rituals demand hot chocolate and cinnamon toast before the scramble into scarves and hastily dug out sweaters to cover our jeans. We slam out the doors, hot chocolate mustaches wiped on sleeves and even the youngest among us instinctively grasps the fleeting nature of our winter wonderland. We’d pull out every clichéd snow themed activity we can think of, one right after another, as the relentless drip-drip-dripping from the eaves counts the minutes until our hearts break once more and we are returned–damp, cold, and muddy to our ordinary lives and winter doldrums.
Even now, decades later snowfall is a precious gift and you’ll find me stopping in my tracks to tip my head back and catch the falling flakes on my tongue.
Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and Peace to You and Yours in the New Year.
LE Franks
SNOW GLOBE by LE FRANKS Now on SALE as an Audio Book at Audible.com
