I spent my earliest years living within striking distance (500 or so miles) of the equator, so snow existed only in the realms of the fantastical, on Christmas cards sent annually from England, in tales of the conquering of Everest (during the year I was born), or in picture-books with penguins and polar-bears (never seen together, obviously).
Relocated back to England, I experienced snow for the first time as a kid in the Fenlands, low-lying and exposed to any beast that sought to blizzard its way in from the East. The 'big freeze' of 1963 lives still in memory. But in truth, we are not a snowy country. Snowfalls are occasional events, snow paralysis usually ensues for 48 hours or so, snow days are rare and happy interludes for British school children (and their teachers).
My first experience of proper, regular, reliable snow was in the 1990s when I was working in America, the city of Rochester, upper New York State on the shore of Lake Ontario, home of the (then) mighty Eastman Kodak Co. Once the season arrived there would be snow for weeks, a way of life. The main thoroughfares were cleared by teams of plows (ploughs) before dawn every morning, tons of salt and grit were spread, it became a routine to dig one's car out of the daily snowfall on the car-park at the end of each winter afternoon.
The most dramatic fall I ever experienced was one Sunday in March. Having driven to a country club for lunch with colleagues, we found on leaving that nearly three feet of snow had fallen in just as many (or few) hours. It was known as a lake-effect fall, cold winds blowing down from Canada picking up moisture across Lake Ontario and dumping it on lucky Rochester.
I was there through several winters and so got used to the regime. Great coat, balaclava and gloves, thick socks and DMs were the dress-code for outdoors. The latter needed washing nightly to remove the salt. Cans of de-icer and a snow shovel were indispensable as was lip balm. On bright days sunglasses were protection against snow glare. Every night was cool.
The scariest drive I ever did was from Boston Massachusetts to Rochester, some 400 miles, one Sunday night through heavy snow. I'd been to a gig and needed to be in work the next morning for a big project meeting. It's a pretty straight route on Interstate 90 and should have taken six hours but the weather was atrocious, there were hardly any other vehicles out and driving into falling snow all the way it took me eight, with the side window part way open to keep me awake. I arrived just in time to shower, change and head for the office.
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| Rochester, New York |
Those of you who are regular visitors to the Saturday blog will understand that although I'm perfectly happy with snow and enjoy it when it knows its place, I don't much like being cold. I don't do ski-ing holidays and I cannot see the attraction of climbing any mountain with a ton of the white stuff on it. Give me a sunny beach to stroll on any day. However, I do have a grudging admiration for those who decide to rise to the challenge of climbing some of the most dangerous and inhospitable peaks the planet has to offer. As I stated at the outset, the conquest of Everest was one of the defining events of the year I was born.
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| Mount Everest 1953 |
Today's internal narrative poem, with obvious snowy connotations, comes from the deep freeze compartment of the imaginarium and casts a cold and calculating eye on the life and death of a mountaineer. Apologies in advance if you find it a bit bleak; it's just where the muse dragged me in snow week.
Scalene
Not so easy reading a book by torchlight
with mittens on because the words won't
keep still and then there's a challenge in
turning over each page hands trembling
eyes straining lungs burning battery low.
You might say it's a strange way to keep
the mind occupied but for one raised on
the rational five miles below and another
five thousand to the west as thought flies
it's the mathematics of it matters mostly.
I know I won't get out of here alive odds
stacked against survival my companion
expired already by my side and now the
weight of loneliness within oppresses as
those unremitting snows outside entomb.
Falling non-stop for a week, such a freak
phenomenon occurs once in eighty years
but we took the risk gambled all and lost
so can shed no tears that's left for wives
and children after we haven't come home.
I packed for intellectual exercise the new
treatise by Professor Kline had devoured
all but the last few pages of Mathematics
in Western Culture before disaster struck
and now I'm struggling to its conclusion.
Fading at the apex of the thinnest scalene
remote from all felicity still I treasure this
slimmest shard of a mental triangle tying
me to home as I'm becoming just another
mote the bulb dying before the final page.
You might consider my position strange
for someone who believes in no gods to
be nearer to heaven than most at my end
shuddering into a blizzard of dead souls
simply the mathematics of it my friends.
Just in case you need a pick-me-up after that, some sublime music to finish from one of my favourite American bands of the 1990s, the fabulous Trip Shakespeare. Just click on the song title: Snow Days
Thanks for reading. Stay cosy, S ;-)