The Snowman

The snowman is waiting.

Waiting since last years drifts went to water

Splashing down to the sea. 

Waiting through May, June and July.

The days so hot 

Even the rain was warm against his arms.

Rain that seemed no kin of snow.

  

The snowman is waiting 

Through drab August.

Waiting for the day when the evening is blown in

On a north wind straight from Baffin Island.

A wind that shatters the summer heat.

A wind that moans and whispers.

A wind that whispers ... snow ...

  

The snowman is waiting.

Watching high geese flying.

Their Vs knifing through the late September sky,

Pulling autumn in behind them.

And hearing their voices calling. 

Voices that seem to be chanting.

Voices chanting ... Snow ... Snow ...

  

The snowman is waiting.

Believing he can hear the blizzards clatter

Echoing in the dry rattle 

Of grass skeletons in the Halloween wind.

Ushering in brown November 

And an end to his wait.

An end to his wait for snow.

  

The snowman is waiting. 

Even though he is forty eight years old

He is still waiting. 

Waiting for the snow 

With an eight year olds bright anticipation.

Waiting to enter Winters homeland again.

Winters homeland clothed in snow again.

The leaves are gone, the air is crisp and cool. Last night I took the trash out and I could see it in the sky. I could almost touch it. I could almost taste it. A "snow sky" was aching to let loose with the white dust of the heavens. The promise of gliding through the woods and over the hills on fresh virgin snow was near.

I had spent the last few months hearing my patients lament the cold and (to their minds) barren winter to come. My lip was bitten a dozen times, realizing that any attempts to lift the scales of gloom from their eyes would be met with scoffs. It was getting old, rollerskiing in the predawn hours with headlights on our helmets, dodging manhole covers, errant rabbits, disbelieving commuters and newspaper delivery kids. The same old routes, and the early morning rush was as much delayed gratification as I could take. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow...

The next morning it was there. Pristine, quiet and illuminating. Not a footprint. Not a tire mark. Not a drop of exhaust pipe oil to spoil the pure white joy. I had gathered all my gear together the night before. I dressed quickly and drove the few blocks to the trailhead. I was in luck. My winter-fevered comrades had not yet arrived. I placed my lightweight waxless skis on the snow and flipped the bindings down. A balanced stretch or two and I was off.

Nothing could be better than this. Total peace and tranquility. Classic gliding on untouched trails. An occasional footprint from a scrounging rabbit was the only scar on the trails. Up through the woods and hills I glided. Deer would startle momentarily as my skis gave their characteristic fishscale scratch, glide, scratch. I paused at the top of the largest hill. The effort needed to climb the hill surprised me. The steep grade would become less of a toil in the next few weeks. Then tucked down, the trees were a blur in the periphery of my light. A few more laps and there were more lights bobbing in the predawn glow. As each friend joined me, and we skied together through the woods, we all sensed the unspoken truth. What a wonderful gift to be alive, to be fit, and to share it all with like minded friends.

Others would swear as they glanced at their buried cars and soiled boots. Some of our summer athlete pals would retire to their wind trainers or indoor clubs to sweat away with gerbil-like determination to go nowhere. Only those few of us who braved the first snow would know the pleasure and thrill of the dawn of our long awaited ski season. We nod and bid one another "good tour" as we leave the woods for the real world. We promise to meet again tomorrow to share the delight of another early morning ski.

I opened my eyes and looked at the alarm clock. It was 1:32 AM. Determined to get some more sleep I rolled over. I knew the challenges of my office that morning would demand my best attention, a good nights sleep was needed. I also knew it was snowing.

I tried to purge my mind of desks and skis. The former was difficult, the latter was impossible. Another glance at the alarm clock, 2:05 AM. I was becoming agitated with myself. "Okay, just get up and check the amount of snowfall, you'll see there is not enough to ski on, then you'll sleep." I walked out to our living room, turned on the outside light and was stunned to see over six inches of beautiful snow on the porch! Skiable!

I quickly went back to the bedroom and began to gather my ski clothing. My wife heard my fumbling and asked what I was doing. "Going skiing," I whispered. She knows how the years first snow compels me, but she never understood it. "You're nuts." Perhaps she's right.

With my clothing tucked under my arm, I nearly ran downstairs to my ski room. My choice of skis was a no-brainer - waxless. I just wanna ski, don't care about glide, just wanna ski! I set the skis outside to cool while I put my clothing and boots on. With my illuminated watch on my wrist and a light on my head, I stepped outside.

I laid my skis down into the virgin snow, snapped my toes in place and made my first kick of the year. I smiled from ear to ear as I watched the powdery snow flow over the throat of my skis with each stride. The only sound was the beautiful rhythmic swish of skiing. I love that sound! I turned off my headlight, and was delighted to discover enough moon to ski by.

In the summertime, the part of the earth I was standing on is used as a golf course. At the wonderful moment I was in, it was a diamond studded winter paradise! My skis floated over the new snow. My eyes teared with the brisk air moving across my body. My heart began to pump faster, I never felt more alive!

I skied right up until my watch told me I had to go to work or be late. I nearly choose being late. I can't tell you what it was at the office I had to attend to that day, but I'll never forget last year's first ski!

After strategically snowblowing a foot of early November snow from the driveway into the yard, a father gathered two ridiculously bundled up toddlers into his arms and made the first toboggan ride of the year all the way from the house to the street.

The muffled grinding of the winter's first snowplow brought all of Mrs. Slining's third graders to the classroom window. Perhaps remembering her own childhood, the amused and patient teacher joined the children in this ritual welcoming of another Upper Peninsula winter.

A teenager padded barefoot out the front door in the predawn to gather up the first snowball of the year. A moment later a quiet thump heralded a direct hit on the telephone pole some fifty feet away. Ah, if tradition held this would be a charmed winter with deep snow and a late spring.

Snowbirds appeared as flakes from the pewter skies on Friday. Observing this, a college lad home on break tasted the air and stepped inside to rejuvenate his skis with fresh pine tar. Saturday's snowfall, by now covering the grass on Eagle Bluff Golf Course, came as no surprise. Nor did the presence of tracks already skied up the first fairway. Roger always appeared with the snowbirds. This was one reunion that never demanded strategic planning.

Two best friends plodded up a road against a malevolent sleety wind that filled their old Adidas with slush. Talk turned to when either might return to college - a warm library and perfectly acceptable cafeteria food sounded grand at this moment. With a late winter in the offing, the experiment of shunning all else and existing entirely to ski seemed doomed. Until. Until with no more fanfare than a barely perceived change in the wind, the sleet was snow. The hypothesis was good after all.

The coach cautioned his stable of precisely trained athletes that no teams were ever selected based on the first day of on-snow skiing. Upon leaving the van he reiterated his warning to take it easy. But the reasoning and sensible part of the competitor forgives his heart. On this day his wings return. Months of dry-land are purged in a splendid accelerating flight over the land.

Old friends with jobs and kids of their own click around the Internet seeking a favorable forecast. With envy they read instead a real-time report from a young athlete.com who over-trained today on a far-off glacier. Finally the morning comes when a couple of fathers sneak from their respective homes and convene their own playgroup on barely measurable snowfall. The transformation is complete: for the moment the dads are kids again.

Snowflakes sifting down accumulate like so many memories. All the long ago first snows cross-link as you place your skis down. Each stride strokes open a page. The companions, the places, the circumstances pour out of your volume. As they return, so does the one reliable bit of magic that's touched you since childhood. You have your wings.