Snow falling in the middle of the night will always fill my heart with sweet clarity.
Novala Takemoto
Children making snowballs
For children in Vancouver, snow is a much wished-for and rarely received, gift. (Hard to believe for a city that hosted the Winter Olympics, but true for everywhere except the mountains of the North Shore and Whistler.) When we moved here from the Yukon in 2001, I didn't understand what snow means in Vancouver. Snow is more than commonplace in the Yukon; one might even call it ubiquitous. During the decade we lived there, I saw snow every month of the year except July. One year it began snowing in late September and never stopped until spring; another year it snowed in August, much to the horror of a visiting friend, and most years the opening game of the soccer season - which begins in May - is played in snow. So, when we moved to Vancouver in 2001, I was looking forward to a mostly snowless existence. Our seven-year-old son was not.
B. loves snow. During his Yukon years he sledded, skated, and was a member of the Jackrabbit Ski Program. And so, when we moved to Vancouver, he was glued to the weather network from late October on and whenever there was any mention of a possibility of snow, he would badger me endlessly. Did I think it would snow? Did I think school would be closed.? How much did I think it would snow? Usually, when snow was predicted it didn't snow at all. The air would get that subtle feel that I associate with the coming of snow and the sky would turn gray and you could almost feel the first flakes falling onto your outstretched hand. And then - nothing, no snow.
Sometimes, though it did snow. After 10 centimeters most things in the city grind to a halt and everyone goes a little snow crazy. Buses jackknife at difficult intersections, cars slide off the road, and everywhere people build snowmen and have snowball fights. I still remember the first snowfall I experienced in Vancouver. The snow must have begun sometime after I went to bed and around midnight I heard shouts and laughter coming from the courtyard outside the condo we lived in and, finally, I got up to look out the window and there was the Polish family from two doors down building a snowman with great glee as snow fell in great wet flakes from the night sky. I smiled, then woke up my husband and he looked out onto the courtyard and smiled too. (Unlike Yukon snow, Vancouver snow is made for snowmen. It is wet and heavy and, when there is enough of it, the perfect building material.) The next day there were at least 10 centimeters of snow on the ground and, by daylight, children and parents were out building snowmen and, on campus, students were doing the same. Everyone was excited about a substance that I had come to take for granted in the Yukon and that was magical in Vancouver. It was a Sunday so once B. woke up he put on all his snow gear and went out into the snow and only came back inside to change wet clothes or drink hot chocolate for most of the day. For about 8 hours, he was in snow heaven.
You can't buy a snowman in a store. All you can buy are those hideous inflatable snowmen that, whenever I see them, I want to poke sharply with a pin and watch them deflate. Real snowmen are unique. No two are alike because it would be impossible to duplicate someone else's snowman no matter how hard you tried. Carrots have become de rigeur for noses and many people dress their snowmen up with hats or scarves, but, truly, all you need is snow and natural materials like branches and sticks and rocks. And snowmen are ephemeral. They are made, last for a few days or - if you're really lucky a week or so - and then they melt. Who can forget the tragedy of melted childhood snowmen? And who hasn't put a snowball in the freezer to save, at least once? This is the true beauty of snowmen: they are one-of-a-kind imperfect handmade creations that only last for a few days. There are other holiday things in that category: homemade cookies, candles, and concerts. As I get older, these are the things I enjoy the most about the Christmas season.
Meanwhile, who made the first snowman? We'll undoubtedly never know for sure, but author Bob Eckstein did his best to find out. His Search for the History of the Snowman led him to the conclusion that snowmen go back to at least the 14th century in Europe. But whoever made the first snowman isn't that important. What I hope you can take away from this posting, is that the simplest things are often the most beautiful and the more ephemeral the more moving. So, take time to build a snowman, bake cookies, listen to some live music - or even better make some music yourself - or burn candles and I know you will feel better. These sorts of things are an antidote to the rush and frenzy of Christmas and they can teach us a lot about what it means to celebrate and be thankful for things anyone can have, often for free. Even if you are grieving or processing old grief and trauma, take time to enjoy the things money can't buy. They can't take away your grief - nothing can do that other than the passing of time - but they can help ease your heart.
What simple, handmade - intangible - things are an important part of the holiday season for you? Why?
