Winter Memory

Only a few of us share memories of 1934. The depression made poverty even more miserable than usual. Michigan had its record high and low temperatures in the same year. And, oh! There was pertussis. You probably know that as “whooping cough”, not pleasant for most; but for a three-year old boy, the cause of enough joyful snow scenes to remember a lifetime. Admittedly, some memories, experiences relived in thought, may be from family stories or later visits. The fact is, as they say, the memory lingers on. 

It was to escape my contagion that I was boarded on the family Model T for the trip to an extraordinary farm home owned by friends near South Haven, Michigan. The 20 bumpy miles seemed like a long way from home in Grand Junction. Parting was not “sweet sorrow” as my parents drove away, leaving me feeling alone while far from family and familiar surroundings.

And then, the snow came. And then the snow came.  And then the snow came. Over and over, I heard them blame Lake Michigan for stirring up the breezes that blew the snow-filled wind directly to their hilly farm by the river. Now I think it’s called “Lake effect snow.” The National Weather Service says that happens when cold air moves over warm water.

Snow? Yes, there was snow. Snow on the roof, snow in the hills, snow on my mysteriously lonely new world. And there was warmth. Two families shared the home I now know was more like a French chateau. However, they did not share religions, occupations or living space excepting the giant kitchen and a grand dining hall.

The kitchen was the center of the home, both literally and figuratively. With six wood-fired ranges, each with eight removable round iron hot spots, the women of this split family joined in the ritual of preparing the necessary food to fuel both sides for necessary work.

Perhaps you’re wondering about this “split family”.  As is sadly often true, disagreement regarding religion caused the division.  One side, fundamentalist Christian teetotalers bottled sweet carbonated soft-drinks for the merchants to sell in area groceries and soda shops.  The Lutheran family was quite comfortable marketing Hamm’s beer for liquor stores and bars. As the women met in the kitchen, the whole family met when winter neared to slaughter the pigs, stuff the sausages and can everything edible the farm could produce.

Large families have the requisite children, and no one blamed anyone for the angels they made in the fields of snow and along the river which now served a special purpose. Here the frigid winter froze the water so thick it could be cut in blocks for summer use. A special saw sliced through the ice one way and then the other, making removal possible. Then came the job of hauling the oversized ice cubes to the big barn where bales of straw would help keep them frozen for sale and use through the coming summer.

You only get one guess which father of the family smoked cigars while he worked. And there must be a moral to this story somewhere. While surveying the scene for the ice harvest, he stepped on one piece that proved to be well separated from the others. In horror, the workers watched as he outweighed the ice, disappearing into the fast-flowing unfrozen river below. There was no split in the fear that the real leader of the clan had descended into certain murky death.

Then the surprise. Miracle maybe? A cloud of cigar smoke bubbled up, followed by the man thought claimed by a frigid fate. There were murmurs from the other side of the family with thoughts of the sinister Power that made the watery resurrection possible. 

Meanwhile, I was kept busy eating good food accompanied by delicious deserts, learning to play checkers and parchisi painted onto the storage benches surrounding the Camelot-long dining table, and not understanding why my family had left me.

Soon the snow was gone, and perhaps the threat of whooping cough as well. Of course, some of these memories came from repeat visits or stories told me later, but this memory is mine.

One day, up the slightly rutted grass-patched trail that served as a driveway came a car I’d never before seen. I later learned it was a Model A, the pride of Henry Ford. Somehow, that never seemed as important as the folks who disembarked with a promise to take me home. My father, mother and sister Lee would never let me forget my first words that day.  “I thinked you’d never come.” I remember. Wouldn’t you?