The falling snow, now turning to ice, pelts my face and creates a chaotic rhythm on my jacket.
As I head down the driveway, I hear the familiar crunch of ice underfoot, and immediately I am again taken back to the streets of Nowy Targ, the alleyways of Krakow, the walkway to my school in Lipnica.
I head to the back door so I can leave all my wet clothes in the basement, kicking the snow off my boots just before entering.
Sounds I haven’t heard in ages. Music that takes me back in time.
Having grown up in the South, I was amazed and enchanted with all the snow I encountered in southern Poland during my first winter there. “Snow” is a frequent word in my journal during that period. In January 1997, just six months after arriving, I wrote,
It has begun snowing steadily this morning, and the wind is making the snow fall at quite an angle, greater than forty-five degrees at times (or less, if you use the ground as a point of reference). The flakes are very large and wet, and they coat my jacket with white when I walk.
In Bristol snow never stays on the ground for longer than a few days. There might be spots of snow in heavily shaded areas, but not the continual blanket of Lipnica. The temperature is consistently below zero, so old snow remains as a foundation for the occasional flurries. Yet despite the amount of snow on the ground, it really hasn’t snowed that frequently. The bulk of the snow now on the ground is from two heavy snow falls, and it hasn’t done much more than flurry since then.
Heavy snow that stays on the ground for weeks, below-zero days, hoar frost, zero at the bone — all these things were relatively new experiences for me.
Later in the month, I continued:
It is snowing, and has been since Tuesday night. Something like four to six inches has fallen, and I love it. The wind blows fiercely and the wet flying snow makes me have to look down anytime I go out. It’s a storm by my standards, but probably only an average snow fall in Poland. It will give me something to talk about back home. “You call this a storm?”
Over the years, though, the snow lost its novelty. Snow everywhere for weeks on end soon became as much a hindrance as a blessing. I knew I’d fully lost my fascination with snow when, walking to midnight Mass one Christmas with K and her aunt, I found myself overwhelmingly annoyed with the sound of shoes crunching and squeaking on the ice and snow.
Then K and I moved to the States, ultimately ending up in South Carolina, where snow is as much a rarity as ninety-degree weather in K’s Polish hometown. Snow became a blessing again, but it is so rare. And so every winter, we wait in anticipation that we might get just a touch of snow.
Today in school, after the first two periods, when eighth grade students were heading off to their various third period related arts classes, the teachers spoke in a hush.
“Mr. M said we’re going to be releasing at twelve today.”
But it was all in anticipation of the storm bearing down on the South. It wasn’t the first time I’d experienced an in-expectation snow day: several years ago, when we lived in Asheville, schools closed the day Babcia was supposed to arrive, also in expectation of a mother-of-all storms. That one never materialized, though. So today I was a little skeptical of the whole prognosis as we got the kids through lunch and hustled out to their buses. I arrived at home around two, and nothing.
Finally the snow started falling, but the flakes were so small that they were difficult to see, and after fifteen minutes, only the lightest of dusting covered the table and chairs on the deck.
“Can we go outside?” L asked, eager to play in the snow and checking the window periodically.
“Can we have a snowball fight? Can we build a snowman?” L has had so little experience with snow that she can’t understand the amount of snow a simple snowball needs. She has no idea the difference between wet snow and dry snow and the impossibility of making snowballs and snowpeople from the latter.
The Boy, having been in Poland last January, has much more experience with snow. The only problem is, he doesn’t remember it. So he too was fascinated with the white powder on our back deck.
L and the Boy returned to their cartoons, and finally the snow became significant, hiding the glass under its less-slight dusting and making significant inroads with the chairs.
Close, but not enough.
Finally, the Girl could stand it no longer. “Daddy, I’m going out!” And off she went, searching for snow to eat and a patch large enough to ball into a projectile.
I got the Boy and headed out shortly after. After marching about the yard for a while, he began scooping swirls of snow, leaves, and dirt in the backyard.
L on the other hand was working on a collection of snow in the cat’s outside bowl.
Once K arrived and we’d stuffed ourselves with chili (what else to eat in such weather?), the four of us handed out for a family walk. The sun had set but the night was still bright with the sparse snow and gray sky reflecting street lights, and the stroller’s wheels crunched in the snow: surely everyone who saw us thought us mad. Our stroll took us to the edge of our neighborhood, into a parking lot of a small corporate office. The Boy was convinced it was “babbas,” a gigantic manifestation of the bubbles in his bath that have become a highlight of his day. He ran in the snow, occasionally calling “babbas!” The Girl chased him, chased K, chased me, obsessively calling, “You’re it!”
So much joy from just a dusting of snow. Only finding out we could do it all again tomorrow made it better.
The 9:18 bus is the only option. There is one at 12:40, but with the return schedule as it is, that leaves only an hour or so to finish one’s business in town. No, the 9:18 is and always has been my Saturday choice. It gives me enough time to purchase the items I need, have a bite of lunch, and possibly wander around town a bit, maybe head to one of the old churches to sit and think.
The bus trip lasts about an hour and costs five zloty, though when I first arrived in Poland, it was less than four. We roll through Jablonka, Piekielnik, Czarny Dunajec, Rogoznik, Ludzmierz. Between Piekielnik and Czarny Dunajec are vast fields where local farmers grow potatoes, grains, beets — everything. There are more between Czarny Dunajec — the halfway point — and Ludzmierz.
We bounce and sway on the uneven, hole-filled Polish roads, finally arriving at the bus station at almost eleven.
I’m here for a new sport jacket — the Polish equivalent of the prom is coming up in a couple of weeks, and while I don’t have enough money for a suit, I thought I’d splurge a little and buy a new sports jacket. Without a suit, I’ll almost certainly be the most informally dressed person at the dance, but I’ve learned to accept being just a little different.
I head out of the station, down Krolowej Jadwigi Street, turn left Krzywa (“Crooked”) Street, then right Dluga (“Long”) Street after stopping at the corner of Kzywa and Ogrodowa to buy a little snack, maybe a sourkraut croquette.
It’s winter, so there’s snow and ice everywhere. Even the sidewalks have a thick layer of tramped down snow that has turned to ice.
There’s an art to walking on ice, and after a couple of winters in Poland, I think I’ve mastered it. Still, I slip and slide enough to seek out the few spots of pavement that might appear. The two or three steps with good traction is a calming moment: I never realize how my whole body tenses up as I walk about on ice until I take two or three steps on asphalt or concrete. My back loosens up, my shoulders drop, my toes uncurl, and for a brief moment, walking is pleasurable again.
I stop at a couple of shops, find something acceptable, then head to the pizzeria at the corner of the town square for some warmth and food.
Once inside, I unwrap the many layers I have on, order a coffee, and thumb through whatever book I have in my backpack. Experience has taught me never to leave my little apartment without adequate reading material, a change of underwear, and some extra cash.
The waitress brings me my coffee, and I order my pizza, twice making sure she realizes that I most definitely do not want ketchup on my pizza. An odd habit, and one that I’ve never acclimated to. At the same time, Polish ketchup is better than American: slightly spicy and a little tangy, it goes better with fries than the sweet American alternative. Still, ketchup is ketchup, pizza is pizza, and never should the two meet, in my American mind.
The cook takes a little longer than I’d anticipated on my pizza, and it quickly becomes evident that I won’t be taking the 13:40 bus back home. And so I suddenly find myself with two additional hours.
I think about heading to the old church behind the rynek. There’s a garden in the back with an elaborate Way of the Cross.
Essentially, the whole New Testament is laid out in small, glass-enclosed dioramas.
It’s a little kitschy, but there’s something about it I enjoy. I’ve never seen it in the snow, and it might make for some interesting contrast.
In the end, I decide to take a chance and drop in on the Peace Corps volunteer who lives in Nowy Targ. He’s not expecting me, but he often isn’t.
I make the long trek to his apartment, almost literally on the other side of town. I walk forever along Aleja Tysiaclecia (“Thousand-Year Avenue”), which turns into Kolejowa (“Railway”) Street before changing names again to ulica Ludzmierska (“Ludzmierz Street”) until I reach the Bor neighborhood.
He’s home, and as always, gracious and kind.
“I’ve got a couple of hours till my bus,” I explain, though I know it’s not necessary. I virtually live here just about every other weekend, filling Friday nights with nine-ball, libation, and English conversation.
We sit and watch ski jumping on a German sports channel — he speaks German, I don’t, so I just watch the footage and imagine my own commentary.
At about fifteen past three, I head out for my bus, once again curling my toes and drawing up my shoulders to walk out on the ice.
Such was an average Saturday when I lived in Lipnica in the late 1990s. This evening, I’ll be heading back to Nowy Targ for another evening of billards and conversation — the first such in about fourteen years, I guess. I’ll see how things have changed in NT, but already, there are differences: I’ll be driving instead of taking the bus. (Indeed, I’ve heard that PKP Nowy Targ has gone completely out of business, so there is no 9:18 or 12:40 bus anymore. It’s all private bus-lettes now, and I don’t have the slightest idea about their schedule.) More changes: said friend, C, still lives in NT, but married with a house now, he lives quite a distance from his original Bor neighborhood. This of course doesn’t take into account all the other changes swirling around us, most important being that we’re both fathers now.
But I expect we’ll walk into Dudek, greet the bartender (I’ll bet it’s the same fellow.) and suddenly, for a few hours, it will be 1998 again.
Good which is done in this way, almost in spite of ourselves, almost shamefacedly and apologetically, is pure. All absolutely pure goodness completely eludes the will. Goodness is transcendent. God is Goodness.
It started with a few, hard flakes that looked more like ice pellets than anything else. Perhaps it was ice. But I didn’t worry: it was good no matter what it was. I strolled back into the house and calmly told the girls, “You won’t believe what’s happening: it’s snowing.” Within a few minutes, the flakes were fat and heavy, a wet snow that accumulated quickly despite the relatively warm weather. L and I changed our afternoon swimming plans and got dressed as quickly as we could, both excited about the prospect of snow. By the time we made it outside, the flakes were enormous and plentiful, and I found myself watching both the snow and the Girl’s excitement with the snow.
Living in South Carolina, snow is such an unpredictable goodness. It’s so rare it can only be counted as a good: at most, it might disrupt traffic for a little while; it could close the school system down for a day or two; but even the most sour, pessimist in the Upstate must smile a bit to see the occasional snow.
Yet it’s so unpredictable. We can literally go for years without any snow, apparently. Every winter, we wonder: will there be snow this winter> Well, at least I wonder, K wonders, the Girl wonders.
First moments outside
I stood there today, though, marveling at the difference between our Upstate winter reality and that of southern Poland. Here, the question is whether nor not it will snow; there, the questions are when the first snow will come, how long it will last, and if it will melt completely before the next snow falls. There, the first snow fall is just the promise of more, just a whisper of what’s to come. Here, it’s the promise, the whisper, and the whole story.
Muddy snowball
Sometimes I wonder what it might be like to live in such a place with my family. Perhaps with that much snow, the Girl would come to take it for granted. Is that even possible? Can a child ever grow tired of making snowballs, of digging snow forts, of sledding?
And what of the good, the transcendent good that eludes the will? Perhaps sometimes that good comes from an unexpected change in the weather, a sprinkling of white in an otherwise gray afternoon.
The sun came out.
The ice glistened.
In the trees.
On the ground.
We live in the South: two things we do not have but would have come in handy this week:
The former is easily enough fixed. A good square-point shovel gets the job done, albeit very slowly. The latter took some thinking. Eventually, we settled on a design: enormous Zip-Lock bags encasing a few carefully folded blankets. It’s soft; it’s durable; it slides — almost.
It needs a little motivation to go the first few times — a little momentum from an old body that now cringes looking at this picture. Still, for the good of God, country, sledding, and all that.
K has a bit more success, but Baby, strapped to a paper plate, glides along the frozen snow like a pro.
L herself, though, is a little more reluctant. She needs a few more observational sessions to get comfortable with the idea of sliding down ice on a pile of blankets tucked in a bag. (Would a proper sled allay her fears any?)
In the end, the most fun for L is “cleaning” the streets: taking large chunks of frozen snow she finds and breaking them gleefully.
“I’m helping our neighbors,” she explains in utmost seriousness, dumping another load of snow back into the road as she talks. “It’s hard work.” And wet.
So is hauling a heavy chunk of growing girl up and down the icy streets on an improvised sleigh, but like L, K doesn’t complain.
Hard is sometimes a pleasure.
A snow day was always an unexpected blessing when I was growing up. They were so rare that it was hard believe it when they actually occurred. As a teacher, I’ll admit that one snow day a year is just about the best thing that can happen. I know that we’ve lost a make-up day, but three are built into the school calendar — not a big price to pay. Having two snow days gets to be irritating. Having three is simply annoying. After that, we’re in the hole: we have to make them up some other way.
So while the first day is all fun and games — playing in the snow, taking walks, just enjoying the snow.
I went for a walk, watching how Southerners drive in the snow, wondering where such misplaced confidence comes when they have so little experience driving in such conditions. At least one individual seemed to think that because he had a SUV normal rules of physics didn’t apply to him.
Others thought that somehow the laws of physics increased their stringency in icy conditions, barely going much faster than I walked. The majority managed to meet some happy medium.
Others were enjoying what the drivers were avoiding. “A day with dry, powdery snow does not present the best condition for a sled with runners,” I wanted to tell them. They were figuring it out for themselves, though.
As I trudged through the snow, I thought of all the countless walks I took in the snow while living in Poland. I was enchanted every winter: snow on the ground for weeks, months at a time. In the South, we’re lucky if it stays for a couple of days (the present conditions excepted). My first year in Polska, there was snow on the ground from early December to March. I went for a walk almost every day, exploring just how deep the snow in the fields could be in mid-January, after several snow falls.
Tramping around with a camera brought about some wonderfully nostalgic moments. My whole story of my photographic hobby unfolded in my memory: I arrived in Poland with a point-and-shoot Canon and quickly bought my first SLR — a Russian Zenit (Зени́т‚ in Russian), a solid, heavy metal-bodied camera with a manual focus and manual metering. I learned more about photography wrestling with that beast than I’ve learned since.
I continued my walk to the main street of our hamlet and slipped into an open CVS. By the door, the Southern storm staple: bread.
“Did you put that out for the storm?” I ask as I pay for the lighters I bought.
“I don’t think so,” replied the attendant. “But I didn’t work this weekend. I can’t remember if we had it out last time I worked.”
As I headed back home, I saw a fitting message.
Everyone had taken it to heart: the streets were virtually empty.
“Who would get out in this mess when there’s no where to go?” I muttered to myself. The whole state shut down yesterday: schools, state offices, everything but the DMV and their salt/brine-spreading, snow plowing devices.
In the meantime, we kept ourselves busy.
Sunday was clear — sunny, with a blue sky and the cool air typical of a Southern winter. The storm was coming, though, and everyone knew it.
Officials canceled school Sunday night, around 9:45, before a single flake fell. Local news outlets carried stories of empty store shelves as residents bought milk, bread, coats, boots, shovels — the signs of a population generally unprepared for such snow.
We woke to white, something so rare here that it makes us simply awestruck.
We’d grown used to seeing one snowfall a year, usually with two inches accumulation maximum, disappearing by the afternoon. To wake up to four inches, with more falling — almost unheard of in the South.
Everything stops — no one’s going anywhere, and so unexpectedly, we have a family day.
Morning in the snow, maybe a movie in the afternoon, more snow before the sun sets — a perfect day.
“Can we go outside?” L asked.
“Of course.”
“I know what we can do!”
“What?”
“We can make balls out of the snow and then throw them at each other.”
“Excellent idea.”
It promised to be a lovely morning: after a day of snow, the forecast was for cloudless skies Saturday morning. I opened my eyes and realized I had to get outside with camera and tripod as fast as possible.
But it was hardly any fun alone. Since we finally had snow, K and I were both eager to get the Girl out into it.
Once outside, L was keen on imitating K and me: in short, she began cleaning. First, seeing us knocking the snow off the car with a broom, she needed to help. But weightier obligations awaited her in the back.
The deck.
When we had a snow an ice day, L enjoyed knocking the ice off the banisters and deck chairs, and she was eager to get to work. In the course of a few minutes, she’d just about knocked off all the ice.
Yesterday, she applied her expertise to snow. She banged it a few times as experience had taught with the ice, then knocked it off.
If only we could keep this urge to clean in imitation going for another fifteen years or so.
As it was, the cleaning bug lasted only a few more minutes. She knocked some snow off trees and shrubs, then headed to the front.
The great sadness was that the snow was too dry to make even a small snowball, let alone a snowman.
Still, snow angels seemed doable.
“Watch and learn,” I told the Girl, then gingerly lowered myself onto the ground. I’d forgotten how quickly the snow invades shoes, sneaks up jackets and settles into just about every article of clothing.
L took a more direct route, and with a flop was wallowing in the snow.
She didn’t mind the snow working its way down her boots, up her jacket, around her neck: by the time we forced her back inside, she was covered with it.
Not ice. Not sleet. Snow — actual snow — began falling just as school let out this afternoon and continued until well into the evening.
Such a rare occurrence in South Carolina that it became the evening entertainment. Some quiet music (Madeleine Peyroux), red wine, and a view of the snow falling.
Certainly all my students are disappointed that all this happened on a Friday, and a Friday before a free Monday (Presidents’ Day) to boot. No chance of a snow day.
It’s a fairly dry snow, piling up lightly and promising a fun morning with the Girl tomorrow.
Who knew? The forecast was there, but who trusts forecasters when they say Upstate South Carolina is to get snow? It’s like hearing a forecast of rain in Death Valley: seems intriguing, but one assumes the meteorologist is drunk.
It’s every child’s fantasy. Around Christmas, I show kids pictures from Poland, pictures of kids walking to school with two feet of snow blanketing all but the walk way and kids say, “Mr. S, if it snowed like that, we’d be out of school for a week!” One gets more excited: “For a month!”
Still, it doesn’t take much to get officials to call off school here. Indeed, two years ago, officials canceled school on the forecast of a huge storm — “due to dump tons of snow” — only to awaken to a light drizzle that never intensified.
By mid-afternoon, it begins; soon there is noticeable accumulation on the deck.
Within an hour, it’s snowing heavily — the kind of snow we haven’t seen in over a year. Winters in Polska brought virtually innumerable snowfalls like this. Here, we’re discovering, it an once-a-year there.
With this kind of snow, living in the south, there’s only one thing a Polish girl can do.
Sit down with a cup of tea and sliwowica (plum brandy that is approximately 140 proof — a shot of it in hot tea fills the whole house with the fragrance of plums),
with Bida on her lap, watching the snow.
So rare. We miss the snow of Poland — a real winter — but the infrequency transforms a sometimes-burden into a jewel.
The snow fall turns to ice, transfiguring limbs to crystal.
We sit and look out our new picture window. “It’s the most beautiful picture we’ll ever see out this window,” K says.
Finally, at half past six, everyone gets their wish: Greenville County Schools will be closed tomorrow. I’m relieved and disappointed: we had a snow-make-up day coming in three weeks. That’s gone now. It’s about six weeks until our next break. Not only that, but it puts me two full weeks behind schedule with my English I Honors class: Monday we’re supposed to be finishing Antigone. We’ll be starting it, in earnest, Tuesday.
But still, who can complain?
With all the heavy, wet snow in the trees, I become worried about the damage so much weight can do to trees not accustomed to a winter workout. Since no tree shakers are available, I go out and do the job myself. I knock the ice from some of the trees immediately next to the house, but the big trees — the ones that can really do the damage, sit in the back yard, out of reach.
As I stand there, I hear limbs cracking, falling, and it takes me just a moment to realize that it’s not whole trees falling (it’s not that loud). For a moment, though, I’m worried. “Surely our insurance would cover it,” I mumble, trudging back into the house.
“Tomorrow,” I say before bed, “for a few minutes (for she’s sick), we’ll introduce the Girl to snow.”
When it looks like this at night
it’s pretty obvious you’re going to have a snow day.
“Snow day?” my Polish students once asked. “Why, we’d never have school if we had such a thing here!” they declared enviously.
Snow in South Carolina — who’d have guessed?
I woke up this morning to a fiery throat, thinking immediately, “Maybe I’ll come home early — as in, shortly after arrival — if we’re not terribly short-staffed.” Much to my delight, I looked outside and saw a powered sugar dusting on everything and thought, “No school, I’m sure.” And sure enough, no school. There’s less than an inch of snow on the ground, but no school.
I think back to the years I spent in Poland, buried in snow from December (sometimes November) to March. I believe we missed one day because of weather. If I recall correctly, students are not legally obliged to come to school if it’s colder than minus 18 Celsius (0 Fahrenheit), but many come anyway.
K laughs at the reaction here to the slightest bit of snow. There are two reasons, I explained to K. First, most places don’t have the equipment to remove snow city-wide. And given the fact that so few people have experience driving in snow, the slightest bit makes them nervous.
A colleague at work provided the second explanation: that there’s a certain phobia with local school boards about lawsuits, and so they cancel school at the slightest hint of bad weather.
Both reasons are completely foreign to K.
Many roads in Poland are literally packed with ice through most of the winter, so the thought of being spooked by a couple of centimeters of snow is absurd to her.
And the fear of lawsuits?
Only in America, she smiles.
I went out for a walk at about eight. Suddenly, it was fairly clear why school was closed.
Just a few feet apart, three cars that slid off the road.
We’ve finally gotten a bit of snow here, and the reaction has been comical.
Thursday there was a bit of powered sugar on the ground – nothing serious, but enough to make it kind of white-ish outside. I didn’t think anything of it until I was about to head out to school. “Maybe there’s a delay,” I thought. As staff I’d still have to be there at regular time, but still – I’d allow myself maybe fifteen minutes. I pulled up the Asheville City School’s site (after loading IE – the site doesn’t render properly in a standards-compliant browser) and suddenly realized I had a lot more than fifteen minutes. “School closed.”
Friday it was similar. At three in the afternoon, the principal came over the intercom saying that she knew people were eager to get out and stock up for the weekend. What? Well, there’s a storm coming, don’t you know?
It hit Saturday night, while we were at friends’ house just north of Asheville. It was snowing enough there that we drove home on I-26 at about thirty-five to forty miles an hour. In town, there was significantly less accumulation. Still, had it been a day later, I’d have another free day – and another day tacked onto the end of the year.
The point of all this? People here simply overreact to snow. Thursday there was maybe an inch and a half on the ground and people were panicking. Right now there’s about the same, and all the kids in the area are probably convinced that there’ll be no school tomorrow.
If northern Europe were run in a similar manner, there’d be no school from November to April!
is an unexpected snow day — when you’re fully dressed, ready to head off to work, and you look outside and notice it’s snowy and icy…
I loved them until I got to college, when I realized, “Hey, I pay for this day whether I get an education or not — not good.” (To be fair, only one or two days were classes canceled due to weather as an undergrad.) Now it’s come full circle.
