Wow - two major snow events this week. For anyone who doesn't know this yet, I live in a northern Appalachian valley in Pennsylvania, and we're only 80 miles east of Lake Erie, with a much smaller Chautauqua Lake in between. We also get lake effect from Lake Huron sweeping downward and over Lake Erie from Buffalo. We got 15 inches of heavy snow with Arctic air, and then the next day, the lake effect machine began churning for 52 hours - Arctic air, blizzard and white-out conditions. We ended up with about 30 inches in town, and higher elevations got more. The wind chill hasn't cracked the upper single digits yet.
It reminds me of the winters of my youth, when it would begin at the start of November and persist until April. I'd be in my snow pants, parka with that natty fur around the hood, hat, mittens, and scarf made by my mom - big, heavy boots with bread bags on my feet. She detested the idea of bread bags; she said that it was "low class." Best to not point out to her that she was supporting us on the state's dime, and therefore, the taxpayers were actually paying our rent, utilities, and buying our food. That's the literal DEFINITION of "low class."
Almost all of my classmates wore bread bags on their feet; it provided a waterproof barrier between your feet and the melting snow. They also made it so much easier to slip those ice and snow-caked boots off when you got inside the school building and sat on one of the wooden benches in the foyer to put on your shoes. We didn't have lockers in those neighborhood elementary schools and we didn't carry backpacks then, so coats would hang on hooks out in that foyer, our boots right beneath them. About 80% of them had bread bags hanging, like deflated balloons, out of their tops. They only indicator of your social status was the brand of bread your family bought; I was always envious of the kids with Wonder Bread bags; they looked so festive and cheery. I had to make do with A&P or Loblaws brands.
So, where was I? Oh, yes - deep snow. This week's weather events have been identical to those winters in the early to mid-70s, when I was in elementary school. Picture Randy, in A Christmas Story, wrapped up like a mummy, unable to lower his arms and barely able to walk, let alone see. That was very nearly me every morning after my mother finished entombing me in my winter outerwear. I endured this quietly because it seemed to make her so anxious and cross while she attempted to cover nearly every inch of exposed skin; her hand-knitted ski masks were heavy, and despite my outrage ("I'm not a BABY!") she knitted "dummy strings" onto my mittens and threaded them through the arms of my coat so I could not lose them ("Then quit coming home with only one mitten on!").
On mornings when 6 or more inches of new snow had fallen overnight, we kids would vibrate with excitement, hoping to get to the big hill halfway between our houses and the school because there was almost always a group of kids with sleds or even just trash bags, speeding down that hill. If you got there in time, you could take a turn before making your way to class.
Most of the time, those activities had to wait until after school. It was a difficult task, making your way through the deep snow in your heavy, constricting winter gear. This was also during the era when snowblowers weren't common in a working-class neighborhood like mine, and most people couldn't afford to pay someone to clear their sidewalks. There were some Dads who shoveled before work, but there were lots of families like mine where there were no Dads and the Moms had to do it (or in my mother's case, not). In the days before the City mandated shoveled walkways so the mailmen could deliver the mail, most walks remained uncleared and only foot traffic cleared pathways for people to walk. We kids were usually the first trailblazers.
Grief is like those unshoveled, untreated sidewalks. You'll plod along, treading carefully on ice-slicked walkways and sighing with relief when you encounter those meticulously scraped paths with heavy applications of salt to melt the snow right down to the cement. Those are the "easy days."
Some days are blocked by heavy snow drifts that come up above your knees and your boots become filled with cold snow that even a bread bag cannot shield you from. You wade slowly through those high drifts, falling frequently and cursing as you struggle to remain vertical in your heavy, protective attire: self-help podcasts, books, and blogs; medications to numb the pain and make it more manageable to stumble through a day that is piled high with those snow drifts of memories and the danger of huge, dagger-like icicles of reality hanging overhead
I'm alone.
I am no longer someone's person.
There's no one waiting to hear about my day.
There will be no warm, welcoming hug when I get home.
I have to do all of this by myself.
falling and piercing your heart. Invariably, you fall, and you lay, flat on your back in that deep snow, sweating with the effort to just move forward a few steps. You allow the cold to seep into your bones, through all those layers of protective attire, and you think to yourself, "I can't do this. I can't go another inch." You wish that someone would come along and pick you up and put you in a car and take you home, but you know that's not going to happen because you are your only protector now. The thought of that is heavy, heavier than the snow, and you just lay there, wondering how long it will take to drift into nothingness so you don't have to keep walking. Then the cold wind blows, its hand slapping you in the face and its icy talons scraping your beet-red cheeks like fire. 7 year-old me would have thought, "Oh, the heck with this!" but 57 year-old me says, "Fuck THIS."
You struggle to get to your feet, caked with the weight of snow/sadness, your cheeks wet with tears and melting snow, and you Just Keep Walking. When you get home, there with be refuge. You can unwrap yourself from all of those protective layers that have become soaked with the weight of the struggle and do the thing you really want to do, be it rage, or scream, wail, or just sit, staring at a wall.
Grief is like a snowstorm every, single day. It's the longest, most exhausting winter there ever was, and you don't get snow days, or canceled work, and no one is going to shovel a path for you but you. And there, in a nutshell, is your choice: use the tools you have at hand to make a path, or trudge through the snowdrift. The easier days are the days you have your shovel. The hard ones? You slip on your bread bags and you start walking.