Memories of Snow

When the snow was thick and plush, we would don our snowsuits, boots and gloves and venture outdoors to the great winter abyss of our acreage. Our small childhood bodies would shake with the excitement of building snow forts and snowmen. We didn’t care that our knees would be soaked through within minutes or that our feet would inevitably get cold; we just wanted to dig and play.

Snow forts were the most important project, and we needed to begin construction immediately if we were to finish on time—before it got dark, that is. So, with limited daylight and small yet mighty confidence in our capabilities, we struck out across the tundra.

Walking down the cleared driveway, we instinctually knew where to turn to disappear into the pasture. About halfway down the driveway and off to the east was a gap in the barbed wire fence. It wasn’t large enough that the horses or other farm animals we had could slip out of their confinement, but for us younglings, it made it much easier not to rip our snowsuits as we held the wire fence open for one another to crawl through.

In this part of the pasture, we had developed a village of our own. There were three small wooden structures; each one was woven with twine and twigs. In the summer, we caked the gaps between the board with mud to provide us with some shelter when it was hot out. We had fun being feral children, operating our own economy and creating our own government. But then the wasps moved in. 

Like imperial forces, they uprooted us from our village and took what was ours. We had built our homes too well, making the wretched bugs jealous of our building capabilities. They argued that it was their domain; they were the best homebuilders, so it was only right that they should be rewarded for their excellence. But we disagreed, as did a few of the other creatures living nearby.

As children, though, we had a significant advantage over the wasps—we would outlast them. So when the fall came, and the wasps took their long rest, we removed them from our homes and cut away some of the hardened mud. Our village was more of a skeleton now, its ribs exposed and bleached. However, we knew we could replicate the same effect of the mud with the snow now that a tremendously heavy snowfall had happened the night before. 

Being industrious children, we immediately got to work. We patched and patted the snow, compacting it against the wooden skeleton. It took all morning and into the afternoon. Our small hands could only handle so much at one time, but our energy was high making us focused on the task of rebuilding.

By the time the sun had begun to dip its head for the night, we had completed our labours. Our knees were soaking wet, and our toes were frozen, but we achieved what we set out to do—fooling the selfish imperial wasps. We celebrated our victory, as all children do; we giggled and argued, then played make-believe.