Snow, Ice — and magic

Anne here, just back from a writers’ retreat, nursing a cold picked up on the plane, and thinking about my fellow wenches and friends who are battling with snow and ice and bitter cold. It made me reflect on some of my own few experiences of snow, and how they opened up another world for me.

Coming from a mediterranean type of climate, I don’t have a lot of experience with serious cold — it almost never snows in my part of the world —  but when I was a little girl we lived inland, and on some winter nights the temperature dropped right down below freezing point. Killer frosts. 

I grew up knowing Jack Frost was real, because after those bitter nights I’d see the magical ice paintings he’d leave etched on the windows. I’d stare into the swirls and ripples of ice and “see” all kinds of strange and wondrous images. To me, they were a little like Arthur Rackham paintings —the more you looked, the more you’d see.

I’d also play with the frost. On chilly nights, I made little “frozen gardens” by putting a saucer of water on the back step, filling it with flowers and little snippets of greenery and leave it to freeze overnight. Then in the morning, I’d bring it inside and put the saucer with its little frozen arrangement on the breakfast table. 

Then when I was eight, we went to live in Scotland for a year. We arrived in the middle of winter, and it was a bitterly cold winter at that — and it wasn’t just our thin Australian blood feeling it — everyone said it was an especially cold winter. For me, all that white everywhere was pretty exciting, snow, icicles hanging from branches and rooftops — it was all a wonderland, even though the snow was deep and frozen solid and the making of a snowman was pretty much impossible — though we tried. Even the burn (stream) at the bottom of the hill was frozen. I don’t know how the fish survived — for all I know they didn’t.

Our house had a large garden, and it was all covered in snow — deep snow, for weeks, possibly several months — I don’t remember exactly. A few sad twigs stuck out of the frozen snow, dead-looking and brittle, so I knew the poor garden was dead. 

Eventually the weather began to warm and the ice and snow started to thaw. And then, to my utter amazement, those dead twigs started to sprout with tiny green leaves and furry buds of pussy willows. From the impossibly hard frozen earth nosed soft little shoots of green, and flowers, crocuses, all kinds of bulbs popped up. How did such softness survive? I had no idea, but I’d read The Secret Garden, and watching this dead iced-up garden come slowly back to life was my very own “Secret Garden” moment. 

A few years later I read Henry Treece historical novels and when he wrote about dark age tribes worshipping the return of the sun, I completely understood why.

Another magical revelation brought by snow came to me some years later. I was nineteen, I think, and making use of the long university summer holidays by exploring Europe even though it was winter. Really the cold was part of the attraction. 

I was taking a bus from London to Edinburgh, and we were not long out of London when it started to snow. And right before my eyes the ancient medieval strip field farming landscape came to life, etched in the snow. Before the snow, the fields had just looked like ordinary green fields; now each individual strip was revealed. 

I was thrilled to see such a revelation happening before my eyes and pointed it out to the person sitting beside me, who nodded and said “Ah” and “Mmm” in a “humor the tourist” kind of way. The pattern only lasted a short while — once the field was fully blanketed in snow, the ancient ridges and hollows disappeared — but I’ve never forgotten it, nor the magic I felt in seeing those remnants of ancient history come briefly to life again. (Photo by  Joan Bellinger on this website)

Now I know snow and ice can be terribly damaging and dangerous, and several of my friends have suffered badly in some of the recent ice storms, and I'm not meaning to minimize that at all. I'm just sharing my few small experiences — and inviting you to share some of your own. 

Comments

[Mary Jo Putney]

Anne, I'm from one of those deep, long winter places and even though one can get really tired of shoveling snow and wearing YakTrax so you don't break your neck on ice, winter and snow really are interesting. But I never heard that about the medieval field patterns showing up in early snow! I'd love to see that. And I love your frost garden!

[theo]

I'm sitting here watching white out conditions as we get hit with a huge storm that already traveled across most of the midwest. The fire is on the hearth and it's perfect. No medieval patterns here though, just the lines from the mower though those are already almost gone as well.

I love the snow, but it does tend to get old after a few months so I'm always ready for spring and yes, I love to see the green shoots pushing their way through the snow to the sun above. It signifies another chance at beauty.

[Janice]

"The Immigrant Song" sums up my area's Nordic background and our usual 5-6 months of winter. It is softly snowing now outside the window but it will not stick--too light of a fall. But when you wake and the outside looks like a Dept 56 "Snow Village", that morning is magical. We are used to snow and we refuse to allow it to hamper our fun so we pay a lot of taxes to get the road clear so we can be off. The winter playgrounds are open thru the New Year's, break out the glogg, get the fireplace glowing and go outside and breath deep the ice and snow. Spring will come but for now, we enjoy the quiet splendor of winter.

[Sue McCormick]

There is magical snow outside my windows even as we speak. Probably part of the mid-west snow Theo mentioned.

I had wanted to try for some shopping today, but the snow and below freezing temperatures are suggesting otherwise. You know those storm warnings where they advise older folk to stay home. Well, now that I'm in the 90s I'm beginning to act like older folk.

There is a child's poem I may have mentioned before. The title (first line) is I Like the Fall and I have forgotten the author.

It seems appropriate to quote the opening lines and the final lines here:

I like the fall, the mists and all
I like the the hoot owl's lonely call
…
I like to tend my fire a bit
And sit inside and laugh at it.

[Mary T]

Being from the mid-west, snow and ice are not a novelty to me. I've lived with it all my life. I too, remember how beautiful the frost looked on the windows when I was a child. Always loved playing in the snow. Back in the stone age when I was a child, there were no snow days. We went to school regardless, and that was quite a challenge sometimes. But I love how beautiful snow is and ice (as awful and dangerous as it is) is even more beautiful - to look at (smile).

[Teresa Broderick]

When I was growing up in Ireland we always had snow for a week or two in the Winter. Then it disappeared and I thought we'd never have it again. We got it two years ago and this year we had it in March. Of course we're not at all equipped for it here and the whole country closes down when we get a few inches. I do enjoy it for a couple of days but after that it starts to drag. Especially if we lose the power which we frequently do. However, it's a great excuse to get a lot of reading done:-) :-)

[Anne Gracie]

Mary Jo, those little miniature frost gardens were such fun to make. And once day you'll be in the right place at the right time and you'll see a medieval field pattern rise out of the ground.

[Anne Gracie]

Oh Theo, there's nothing like a lovely crackling fire, is there? I hope you can stay safe and warm throughout this winter.

[Anne Gracie]

Janice, the extremes of the seasons are a little big magical, I think, and it's lovely you can enjoy them all. Enjoy your glogg and the fire and the quiet hush of the snowy landscape.

[Anne Gracie]

Sue, I like your poem — thanks for sharing. And you've had a birthday — last time you mentioned your age, it was eighty-something, so happy 90th birthday. Though it doesn't sound at all as though you're behaving like "older folk" — keep it up.

[Anne Gracie]

Mary, yes, the beauty and the danger go hand in hand, don't they? There is a line in an old Australian poem that goes "her beauty and her terrors, the wide brown land for me."

I was wondering whether people still get frost paintings on their windows, now in the days of central heating. Is it a sign of the past, do you think?

[Anne Gracie]

Teresa, I can imagine the excitement and the drama of such a rare event. I remember when I was about 15, it snowed in Melbourne. I was at the cinema with my friends and when we came out, everyone was talking about the snow, and we looked, and found some dirty gray slush in the corner of a shaded gutter, and that was all that was left. LOL

[Mary M.]

"The world is full of many wonderful things, you have only to look about you to see a few."
~ aphorism printed on a roll of paper towels I once bought, I hung one over my desk to remind me how true this is!

[Anne Gracie]

That's so true, Mary. I think so often we're in a rush to get places or do things we don't notice the beauty around us. Another saying I like is a reminder to just stop and smell the roses.

[Mary T]

Yes, it is a sign of the past. The only place I see frost paintings nowadays is on car windshields. And the adult in me is usually to annoyed to appreciate the beauty. (sad)

[Annette N]

I now live in Austin Texas-seldom see snow - at times lots of ice. When I was a child we lived near Lake Michigan and yup ice and snow were very real.

Like you, Anne, I thought that Jack Frost was a magical painter. The designs were beautiful and it seemed to me that nothing ever looked the same as the last one.

Now, I am not sure I could deal with snow on a regular basis, but I certainly enjoyed your reminder of what once was in my life. Thank you.

[Teresa Broderick]

That's hilarious Anne:-) :-)

[Karin]

I have a little poem to share also, which seems appropriate for the last day of November:

November comes
And November goes,
With the last red berries
And the first white snows.

With night coming early,
And dawn coming late,
And ice in the bucket
And frost by the gate.

The fires burn
And the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring.

[Anne Gracie]

Thanks, Annette. I must ask my friends who live in the country whether they still get frost paintings on the windows. And yes, they were always different. A German friend told me that she called them "ice flowers" when she was a child.

[Anne Gracie]

Thanks for sharing that, Karin -- it's a lovely little poem. November here is the forerunner to summer and not quite so poetic.