When the first big snow of the winter comes, there is always—no matter how prepared you think you might be—that element of surprise. First there is the moment (usually five minutes after everyone should have left for school) when every child in the house announces simultaneously that their snow boots are “too small,” “too ugly,” or “stolen.” (No one has ever actually “lost” anything in my house—it’s all been “stolen.” It’s awful: the poorest, most desperate inhabitants of the worst slum in Rio de Janeiro are models of honesty and restraint when compared to the lowdown, dirty shoe and homework thieves who seem to reside at myhouse.) And then, of course, there is the bitter realization that even when their stolen snow boots finally appear (cleverly hidden beneath the other snow boots—oh, those tricky, tricky Brazilians), they’re going to be of little help without socks of some sort. And finally, there is the shock of discovering that—even with snow boots and socks miraculously applied, and even though the sun may be shining—two feet of snow on the ground and thirty mile an hour winds mean that it is still actually quite cold outside, and therefore something more than a light hoodie (or three) might be appropriate.
And then those moments pass, and before you know it (ha!) it is the lastbig storm of the winter, and everyone is an expert when it comes to dealing with the elements. Snow boots are waiting by the front door, socks are plentiful, and everyone knows that the best indicator of the cold isn’t the amount of blue sky that’s visible, or even how much you really, really want it to be warm, but rather the actual temperature.
At least, that’s how it should be by the time the last big storm of the season rolls around. And, perhaps, that’s how it would be (and is) in houses with only adults, but in houses with children it is a different story entirely. In houses with children, every snowfall—no matter how deep and recent the one preceding it was—it greeted the exact same way: with shock, amazement, and a complete and utter lack of preparation.
You know how every snowfall makes the Earth look fresh and new? I think it has that same effect upon the brains of children: as the fresh white flakes fall and obliterate all traces of the landscape you once knew, so too do they obliterate all memories of what snow is really like in the minds of the young.
Of course, they have no problem remembering the good parts (for them, at least) about snow; they have no problem remembering that snow can lead to snow days at school. If I so much as drop an ice cube on the kitchen floor in the middle of the night, somehow their subconscious is able to hear it and recalibrate their internal alarm clocks (such as they are) to “two hour delay.” And yet, that same subconscious wimps out when it comes to giving out information like “where did I leave my snow boots?” or “don’t forget: snow is COLD.” Or maybe it’s just that the subconscious—cheeky little monkey that it is—enjoys watching a game of “my left (shoeless) foot” every now and again. It’s hard to say.
I do know that as much as my spring flowers might appreciate a late snowfall like the one we just had, I can’t say that the same is true for me anymore. Somehow, searching for boots and gloves in November feels like the start of a Grand Adventure; searching for them in March feels like the moment when you realize you just want your Grand Adventure to be Done Already.
Or at the least the part of your Grand Adventure that takes place in the slums of Brazil.