Snow Day in Palestine
By Peter Fergus-Moore
In December of 2013, my wife Joyce and I boarded a chartered bus in Jerusalem for what we thought was a break from our duties and a chance to see more of the country. We were serving a three-month term as human rights monitors with the Ecumenical Accompaniment Program in Palestine and Israel (EAPPI). The program had arranged for a journey to Haifa in northern Israel, for a chance to hear directly from Israeli peace activists on their work. By then, the winter rainy season had arrived.
We had stopped on the way to Haifa at the intentional community of Neve Shalom/Wahat as-Salam, a joint Israeli Jewish-Palestinian-Muslim village about halfway between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. It was enlightening to see a community of people of different backgrounds who chose to live cooperatively and in peace. Among other initiatives, the community operated a guest hostel. Little did we know that soon, we would become guests there ourselves.
Travelling south after our stay in Haifa, we encountered sleet and wet snow. Our bus managed to make it past Tel Aviv, when we were halted by the closure of the highway to Jerusalem. For hours, nothing moved, while our EAPPI personnel tried to find out when the road might reopen. Luckily, we could—and eventually did—return to Neve Shalom/Wahat as-Salam to register as guests. By then, some 10cm of wet snow and slush had blanketed the area, but Jerusalem was closed down under some 20cm of snow. What to us in Superior country would be a minor nuisance, was almost catastrophic in the Middle East. It was the worst winter storm to hit the area in over 60 years, we were told.
A few days later, we made it back to Jerusalem, to find a city digging out of the unexpected snowfall. In East Jerusalem, sidewalks were blocked by tree branches snapped off by the wet, heavy snow. Walking was made difficult by the presence of snow piles everywhere, as there was no place to put the stuff. As most houses in the region lacked central heating, the damp cold was bad for everyone.
As my placement lay in Bethlehem to the south, I said goodbye to Joyce and her team to take the bus. By then, highways had been cleared somewhat, and the bus trip was without incident. But at our placement, my team wondered how it was for the people in the villages surrounding the Bethlehem area. We had heard from the team to the south, that Hebron was still all but shut down. Had the plows gotten through to Beit Sahour and other communities, we wondered?
A couple of us in Bethlehem volunteered to try to visit nearby Al Khadr. If the schools had managed to reopen, we were prepared to accompany children going to school in the midst of ever-present Israeli military patrols. Once at Al Khadr, however, we found ourselves struggling to walk on snow-choked sidewalks and roadways. None of the schools were open, but a few hardy staffers at the middle school had made it in, and kindly offered us a cup of tea to warm up. They told us that it was worse farther south: more snow, hydro lines down, nothing moving. This hit home to us on the drive back to Bethlehem. In a wintry rural expanse near the city, I saw one steel hydro pylon bent and twisted as though made of putty, its broken wires dangling uselessly from the cross braces.
As the snow slowly melted, another challenge emerged. Most of us had not brought winter or waterproof boots. City walking became an exercise in puddle-jumping, and wet socks and soaked shoes were the norm.
The snow days became something of a snow week as the region slowly recovered from the onslaught. Eventually, we managed to resume our duties. Though our feet never quite got warm again, the warmth of the people we lived among more than made up for our winter coldness.
Christmas Break Snowstorms Were the Best
By Victoria Lynn Smith
When I was a child, a big snowstorm often arrived during Christmas break. My sisters and I would wake up to a thick blanket of snow. Even though our drafty old farmhouse was cold on winter mornings, we sizzled with excitement. We dressed quickly and scurried down the creaky wooden stairs into the kitchen. We stuffed ourselves with several bowls of our favorite cereals because it would be hours before we returned for lunch.
Our father always beat us outside. He plowed our enormous driveway with his orange-colored lawn tractor. He purposefully pushed most of the snow to the east side of the driveway, creating a long marvelous snowbank that became our winter playground.
After breakfast, my sisters and I crawled into the closet tucked under the stairs. We dug through boxes that contained our hats, mittens, scarves, jackets, and snow pants. I inhaled deeply as I entered the closet. I loved the scent of musty winter clothing mixed with the pungent odor of rubber boots. It smelled like snow forts, snowmen, and snowball fights. We dressed in layers to fend off the cold temperatures and biting winds that often followed a snowstorm. Before my sisters and I could head to the snowbanks, we shoveled the backstairs and along one side of the house, areas my father couldn’t plow.
In short order, like answering a silent dog whistle, the neighborhood children arrived, and the snow games began. We formed two lines on top of the snowbanks and played King of the Hill. Two combatants covered in winter gear would square off and wrestle one-on-one until someone was tossed from the hill. The wrestling matches continued until a king was crowned.
We pretended to be mountain climbers. Starting at one end of the long snowbank, we hiked. Balancing on top of large chunks of snow, we hoped to reach the end of the “mountain range” without falling because if we fell, we had to start over.
We dug through the snowbanks, creating cozy tunnels and hid from the cold winds. We used chunks of snow compacted by my father’s plow to build forts from which epic snowball battles raged. We had rules: no ice balls, no slush balls, and no throwing above the shoulders. But snowball fights always ended with at least one person in tears after taking a snowball to the head or down the neck. Accusations would fly: “You did that on purpose!” Denials would follow: “Did not!”
After a couple of hours in the snow, our snow pants, jackets, and mittens would be soaked. We shivered and our teeth chattered. It was time to go inside. We left our boots at the back door and stuffed our wet outerwear into the dryer. While our clothes dried, we ate lunch, usually a bowl of canned chicken noodle soup and a peanut butter and margarine sandwich. To this day, when I eat chicken noodle soup, I crave peanut butter.
After our clothes dried, we returned to the snowbanks, where we stayed until we started to chatter and shiver again, sending us back inside for supper. Because it was Christmas break, my sisters and I were allowed to go back outside after we washed and dried the supper dishes.
At night, a winter fairyland greeted us. In our rural neighborhood, without city lights to diminish the darkness, we could see thousands of stars twinkle against an endless midnight-blue sky. If the moon shone, the snow on the ground sparkled like diamonds. Sometimes a smattering of snowflakes fell, and we caught them on our tongues. Or we watched them land on our mittens, amazed by their one-of-a-kind, six-sided perfection.
At the end of the day, our cheeks were rosy and our muscles weary. Exhausted but happy, we climbed into our beds and slept like a team of spent sled dogs until the sun came up and invited us back outside.
Philosophy of the Shovel
By Eric Chandler
I asked my dad why he was sending me out to shovel while it was still snowing. He said, “Every shovelful now is one you don’t have to shovel later.” That was when I was in 5th grade, but I never forgot it.
Shoveling snow teaches a lot of life lessons. First and foremost, it discourages procrastination. You avoid problems if you shovel right away. You might think you can shovel later, but then the freezing rain comes and turns it all into white steel that stays there until spring. If the plow comes by and blocks the drive with a big heavy berm, you better hit it right away or that thing solidifies like the runout of an avalanche. If you wait, it’s like breaking up a slab of concrete. There’s no cure for procrastination like a snow-covered driveway.
I’ve shoveled my whole life. It was a point of pride. I was out there working fast to beat the guys down the street that fired up their snowblowers. I was like John Henry: I wasn’t going to let that steam drill beat me down. I’d rather die with a hammer in my hand. Or a shovel, I guess. Who needs a gym membership when you have a shovel? I’ve shoveled in Michigan, New Hampshire, Alaska, Utah, and Minnesota. My tactics evolved over the years. I imagine I’m an individual snowflake in the drive. What is the shortest distance for me to get out of the way? I shovel with that in mind. I shovel a stripe down the middle. Never throw when you can push. I push from that center stripe perpendicular to the sides. Throw only when you have to. It’s better to lift often with a small load, than to lift a whole shovelful. Go clean up the snowplow berm first while you’re fresh. Don’t surrender any territory. Don’t assume the forecast will cooperate. When I was done, I leaned on my shovel and admired the carefully manicured edges of the drive while the steam of my breath rose into the air. It was a chore, but it was also like building a sandcastle.
Usually, when there was a big dump, school was cancelled. I demanded that the kids come out and help. The dog ran around and made a mess, trampling pawprints into the areas I hadn’t shoveled yet. So did the kids. Eventually, I gave up, put down the shovel, and played in the snow with everybody. Tearing around, building forts, and throwing snowballs, and bringing out the sleds. The dog would ruin the castle walls and destroy the snow caves, and we’d all laugh.
After 40 years of shoveling, I recently bought a snowblower. During our record snows two winters ago, it was a life saver. But recently, we got just an inch or two and I couldn’t justify burning the gas. I shoveled my center stripe and pushed to the side until I had to throw. I thought about my philosophy, developed over decades, one shovelful at a time. It’s not too complicated. Don’t procrastinate. Work hard. Don’t be too serious. Remember to have fun.
Sledding Comes but Once a Year
By Amy Schmidt
Trucks park at the bottom of the driveway and line up along the road like children waiting for recess. The walk to the top of the driveway is long, roughly a quarter mile, and steep; by the time you get to the top, you’re sweating, carrying your hat and mittens and likely, your coat is unzipped. But if you aren’t willing to put in the effort of going up, you’ll miss the thrill of going down. And believe me, it’s worth the effort. Sledding this good comes but once a year.
All winter long our family would wait for the invitation, the call from our neighbor, the owner of the best sledding driveway in the county. We never knew exactly when he would call; the date was variable because perfect driveway sledding is dependent on many factors. There has to be the right amount of snow over the course of the early winter months and that snow has to be plowed purposefully every time it falls. The temperature has to be just right, too, because sleds are finicky: only perfect snow is good enough for perfect sledding. And because perfect conditions wait for no one, everyone has to drop everything when the call finally comes.
We were like soon-to-be grandparents waiting for the phone to ring. Whoever answered it would shout, “It’s time!” and we’d load up the truck with kids, Carhartt’s, and whatever sleds we could dig out from the mounds of snow behind the shed. This always made us last to arrive, a grievance our kids would hold against us until they were lost in the sights and sounds of friends scream-laughing as they flew down the driveway.
Saucer-sleds were arguably the fastest and often the source of squabbles between neighbor kids. Of course, the fearless, quick-witted kids wouldn’t fight, they’d just wait until the sled was loaded and, as it started downhill, would throw themselves on top of the pile of unassuming friends. The more the merrier.
I preferred inflatable innertube sleds, soft and pillowy as a raised glazed donut from World’s Best. Bad back and all, I’d slowly meander down the driveway, enjoying the wonderland sights, humming some Christmas tune maybe, lost in the safe splendor of it all—until my husband, approaching fast and silent from behind, would whiz by, grabbing my boot or coat sleeve, forcing me to join his version of sledding bliss. Truth be told, I never minded. I knew if we started to veer toward a snowbank, he’d throw his leg out, using it as a rutter to steer us down the river of snow. And I knew my kids needed to see us delighting in child-like adventure, to gather evidence against the claim that Mom and Dad are no fun. And I knew what he was really doing: loving me. We’d been married long enough for me to interpret correctly his terms of endearment.
As the sun slid down its own hill, we’d make our way to the neighbor’s cozy home. It had a big entryway that was soon filled to overflowing piles of sopping wet winter gear. In stocking feet and long-underwear, we’d gather around the table, or on the living room floor, enjoying bowls of chili and hot cornbread, glasses of wine, and mugs of cocoa. There was always a neighbor or two I hadn’t seen since the previous year, time and busy lives being what they are, and I remember feeling the most grateful for those connections. Somehow, it felt sacred to share a snowy day, once a year, with someone who is no less a friend for the infrequency of visits. In fact, the infrequency is what makes it sacred, I think. Worth the wait.
When the meal was done, and the entryway emptied of all but the stray mitten that was bound to be left, there was always a decision to be made—would we walk down or sled down? Would we face the darkness safely, with a headlamp and a steady gait, or brave the blind ride, the amplified thrill of one last time? Our laughter always echoed as we made our way by star light, weaving swiftly in and out of the spruce tree’s thin shadows, lingering in the air, waiting for us, whispering until next year.