New England winters are beautiful.  Picture postcards with enchanting views.  Not so in NYC where I am sitting in my apartment watching a few hearty souls trying to cross the street without falling in the slushy waste that’s flowing down to the sewer. The winter blahs are here and I am waiting impatiently for spring.

I wonder, was it better when I was young?  Maybe I didn’t mind the dark so much or the wind or the snow.  What was it we did? I know we didn’t romp on the hills in Brooklyn or skate on an icy pond, with legs dancing and scarves flying behind.  We trudged to school over mounds of white turned grey while icy water slipped into our boots.  I always lost my mittens.  I always dropped my books.          

I remember that big hill at the end of our block. The one leading down to the deserted freight train railroad tracks nearby. All the kids came out after a snow. I shared a sled with my sisters. I can still feel the exhilaration as I flopped down on my belly, my big sister shoved me from behind and I went rushing down making my own wind, steering to safety at the bottom. It was wonderful.

Now I’m sitting here nursing a mug of warm tea and my mind travels back to that strange, beautiful, wonder day when the skies opened and the whole world changed.

I must have been 12 that year. It happened on a weekend in the middle of winter. Saturday was dreary…too cold to go outside so we stayed inside playing gin rummy and coloring in our Woolworth’s Special Sale Coloring Book for All Occasions.

Sunday was a bit warmer. By night time the winter winds raced by toppling hopeful pails and shovels, bending bushes, pushing uselessly at the oak tree in back of the house. That afternoon there had been a snow shower. What fell was disappointing.  Not enough to build a little snow baby or make snowballs, or even lay down and make angels with our arms.  Not nearly enough to make us happy.

At night, we polished our shoes for the new school week, brushed our teeth, and went to bed.

By morning everything had changed.  It was snowing…this time for real.  The lawn was covered. The cars were buried. The bushes were sagging under the weight of snow piled high on their limbs.

It was the best day of all.  The day of the Big Blizzard of 1947.  The schools were shut. The buses and trollies and subways didn’t run. Nobody rushed to work. Nothing moved. Silence descended.

From inside, the snow looked too deep to walk in. We couldn’t see the steps from our porch.  The sidewalk was hidden somewhere below. But it wasn’t really cold.  The snow made a soft blanket and if we crawled underneath, it would be warm. We put on our winter coats and boots and ran outside to explore.

 My father brought a shovel and cleared a path down the steps, and when I walked down, I could barely see over the white mountain on either side of me. I couldn’t get used to the quiet. It was too peaceful.  Where had the city gone?

Then, from far down the street, we heard the steady clip-clop of hooves. A horse? No! Not in Brooklyn? Never! We stood on our toes and looked down the block. And here came this sleek brown horse, head bent low, sure-footed in the snow, pushing before him a plow taller than I was.  The plow cut a giant V deep into the white terrain. I never saw anything like it and I’ve never seen anything so strange since. I never lived in a world so silently asleep.

And now I’m sitting here wishing I could do it again.  But I’m too old and too tired and I leave winter pleasures to the young and the crazy.  I’m going to bed with a good book.

Good night!