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More Whoa in Winter
 Every winter, my dad got me a new pony. Actually, he made
the pony, rolling giant snowballs for haunches and shoulders, piling on
snow for the neck. Next he packed and shaped the head and mane. Given
the average winter temperatures in our yard, cold hands halted work
about the time he got ready to chop out a saddle and a bridle. I
learned to ride bareback.
For the younger me, the right depth of pony-packing snow
never came quickly enough. The pestering - me being the pesterer and
Dad being the pesteree - usually started after that first two inches
whitened the lawn. Couldn’t we just shovel all the snow together and
carve that horse? Two inches of surface area times half an acre of yard
equalled, well, gosh, it had to equal at least one pony, maybe two.
In Lake Superior country, nature dictates the activity. You
wait for the right weather - even the right bad weather - to fit your
needs. Luckily when adequate snow did finally fall, there was always a
pony in there somewhere.
That perennial horse and I galloped beyond our northern lawn
on far-flung adventures. We chased bad guys (sorry, there were no bad
gals) or we ran away from bad guys if my imagined odds overwhelmed us.
Sometimes we were cowgirls, sometimes spies (you remember the Sixties).
These days, I think we’d be firefighters or police officers. Funny, I
don’t remember us ever being hard-riding reporters. “Whoa there, news
source, my pony and I got ya covered and this pen is loaded.”
By the time Mom called me for supper, usually about 20
minutes after sunset, the friction of rocking in the “saddle” had
frozen my snowpants in place. Just so you know, Mom, it was the
snowpants, not the stubbornness, that delayed the dismount and caused
the need for multiple repeats of “Come in now!” before compliance.
Really.
In my home, winter traditions were as plentiful as icicles on
the eaves. Each December, my sister and brother painted the scene from
a Christmas card onto our front window. The scene underwent fascinating
color changes: The “good” side facing the neighbors during the day, the
black canvas of night bringing the good colors inside for us to enjoy.
We also have herky-jerky old films that record family
tobogganing outings with LeMays tossed every which way and empty
toboggans completing runs on their own. This is filmed evidence that
laughter can break through snow-encrusted faces.
Winters now arrive in a flurry of nostalgia. Painting is not
my talent and store-bought holiday window clings don’t change color at
all, until the sun fades them out. Toboggan boards seem a lot harder
despite the extra padding advancing years has brought me.
And for the past couple of decades, despite deep snow
covering our yard, I just can’t find that pony. Maybe it’s for the best
- my husband goes through enough embarrassment as it is and a mature
lady riding a snow horse in the yard might be too much for even Bob.
But I sure miss that “whoa” in my winters. My seasonal advice for your
family is to build more whoas - and more wows - into yours.
Konnie LeMay
Editor
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