Snow Mountains

The weather has been leaving me quite conflicted lately. I was happy to see a snow fall record set for the month of December, because if it’s going to snow that much it might as well set a record so we have something to brag about.

But then when the thermometer hit 40-something degrees last week I was happy about that too, because if it’s going to snow that much we might as well have a warm day to melt some of it so we don’t drown this spring with record setting floods.

Even the snow piles have shrunk. These large mountains that rose to the sky almost overnight are in driveways, parkways, boulevards, and yards. With last week’s warmer weather the height of these snow-capped peaks was reduced so adventurous children may now be able to reach their summit with out the aid of Sherpas.

Like most Minnesotans I am pretty well acquainted with large piles of snow. Using nothing but snow, I have built them from scratch. I have moved them, hollowed out their middle, tunneled under them, climbed them, tumbled and slid down them, and defended them. I don’t mean that I defended the snow’s honor or legal right to exist; I mean I have defended these strategic hills in playground battles.

The recess and noon hour activities of the religious elementary school I attended followed a seasonal pattern. In the spring and fall we fought, but in the winter time we took advantage of the snow and ice.

We were free to do things that are almost unthinkable now. There was a small incline in an area between the church and the school and in the winter it was flooded to provide a slippery slope for ice-skiing. Ice-skiing combined skating and skiing without using skates or skis. No poles were used to stay upright, just a good pair of rubber boots - fastened either with a zipper or a set of buckles. My brother skated out of school early with a broken collar-bone after hitting the slope.

But when it snowed a lot, which seemed to be often, there were two huge mounds of snow that were piled in the school yard. These were positioned just far enough apart to be suitable for a variation of king-of-the-hill. The object of the game was quite simple: There were two teams or sides, and each side would start with one hill as their home base and then attack the other side’s hill, while at the same time defending their home hill against an attack.

There was no choosing up sides, the two warring factions were decided at the city limits: town kids versus country kids, all ages allowed. There were of course exceptions and allowances for trades and traitors.

I lived in a house with horses corralled across the street and a farm at the end of the block, but the fact remained I lived in town. Still, I found myself in a unique position to fight for either side. As a new kid I was disliked by boys in town and in the country, so I wasn’t exactly welcomed on either hill.

As there were no rules, all means of engagement were allowed: shoving, pushing, pulling and flying tackles. Pickett’s Charge was reenacted most every day at noon. I remember what it felt like to defend the hill. Cold air carried war cries that inspired one side and terrorized the other. A dozen or so boys screaming and hollering as they ran through the snow to attack the hill I stood on; the approaching hoard scrambling up towards me, and then crashing to the bottom with another boy who had left his feet to knock me off the top.

Even after living in a few different rural Scott County homes for the last twenty-two years, I still feel like a town kid living in the country. Perhaps I should invite a few guys from town, and some of my neighbors for a friendly game of king-of-the-hill.