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Snowman chapter 8
I remember the time of picture book winter seasons. The snow was white,
deep and bore heavily on the bent tree limbs. The snowy winter coat muffled the
hubbub of the major highway, the artery that fed all the commuters of the Alb
Mountains to their factory and clerical jobs in Reutlingen the largest and most
industrious town within a 25 mile radius. This thorough-fare was within earshot of
our home, and from the orchard garden adjacent to our home we could look down
to the seamless string of bumper to bumper traffic during rush hour at about 7 am
and 6 pm. However, once the landscape was snowcapped and a wintery sky hung
over the valley, the business of the highway retreated into more distant dreamy
realms.
This was the time when Dad was up when it was still night outside lighting a
fire in the woodstove in the living room. So when Sister and I would emerge from
our adjacent room, we were cozy and warm. In these wee hours of the day Dad
would also light a fire in the huge cannon stove in the mill, so his workplace would
be comfortably warm and the water pipes wouldn't freeze. Dad called it the cannon
stove because it had the color of a cannon and the stove pipe projected out like one
long barrel radiating heat like no other furnace in town.
The bitter cold of five years prison camp in Siberia, where Dad had to
withstand -30 degrees below zero and trudge through knee-deep snow or otherwise
be bitten and chewed to death by starved and vicious dogs trained to kill prisoners
of war who were faltering from exhaustion. This experience had left an indelible
imprint in Dad's mind, so every year when winter rolled around, he became like a
professional stoker tending to several fires at the same time and never letting the
family experience an inhospitable home. The art of laying a fire, Dad had it down
to a science. When to use small round coke and when to put in brick-sized
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briquettes, just how much kindling, how much air flow to feed the fire, when to
choke the fire through various regulators so it wouldn't burn up so fast and when to
make it searing hot so the stove pipe would turn a reddish glow as flames leapt
through every leaky seam and crevice of the stove.
In those days frost would paint the most wondrous designs on our window
panes. While warmth radiated from the stove I studied the fern woods and other
lush foliage that frost had layered upon our windows. I found myself transported
into the fairyland of fronds that beckoned me to imagine these frosty scenes as
magic woods where winter spirts played hide and seek.
We also had a couple of modern windows which had an insulating gas
wedged between two layers of glass. Not a trace of frosty leafage appeared on
them. This was ample proof to me that modern inventions were inimical to the
magic of the seasons and the elements.
Eager to brave the cold and test the new snow that had fallen silently over
night, Sister and I bundled up in woolen leggings, caps and mittens all knit by
Mother in the late night hours on her knitting machine.
Prince our part wolf, part German Shepherd dog greeted us with glee,
licking our noses and telling us with short happy yelps that this was his kind of
weather. To both our amazement he ploughed through the snow and belly whopped
into snow embankments so only his swaging tail was visible telling us like a
pennon that yes indeed Prince had found the perfect playground for his thick
winter coat.
Sister and I were just as ecstatic as the dog. We scooped up snow with our
mitten hands and smashed it into the dog's muzzle, this he enjoyed thoroughly, I
could tell by the sparkle in his eyes. I would marvel at the fluffy texture of the new
fallen snow and then scoop up one mouthful with my tongue. Every snow tasted
different, so I found out. Just like every year wine has a different aroma. This
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particular one had captured sunshine in its taste; the sun had truly ripened it, as it
was a bright and sunny day turning the snowy land into one shimmering and
glittering ice palace. Under the radiant sun each crumb of snow turned into a multi-
faceted prism, and Sister and I called it sparkle land.
This snow was the perfect building material for the snow man that was
already standing in his full glory smiling with carrot nose in our imagination. Dad
joined us in our exploration of the perfect snowman site, visible to all our
neighbors. Indeed, we intended to make it something of a monument so even all
the automobile travelers coming and going to the Alb Mountains or the city would
be able to see our rounded white man with the benign look on his face.
Dad showed us a trick how to scoop a whole lot of snow onto the spot that
we decided was going to be the snow man’s base. He supplied us with shovels so
we could be more efficient in our building project. Making the snow stick so it
would glue together and grow into one big ball was no small enterprise. It took
much patting with our hands and the flat side of the hand trowels. The bottom of
our snow man was as wide as my arm span. Sister and I were ready to have a
sandwich with butter and blackberry jam and a glass of milk to replenish us with
new energy for there were still the trunk and the head that needed to be built before
sundown. Centering the middle part on top of the bottom came close to being an
engineering project. One of us had to take several steps back and tilt the head
either way to gauge how well the trunk was placed right above that solid
foundation. After trial and error, it occurred to us that flattening the top of the snow
man's bottom so we would have a flat platform was the way to build our
construction up in height.
Dad came by, but we were working so furiously we hardly noticed his
presence. He mustered the half finished project and told us that we were great
builders, he sounded truly proud of us. Once we had finished the trunk part, we
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barely could wait to set the head on this man and get to the fine tuning. Because of
our impatience our snow man turned out to have a small head, though we made up
for it, by placing this conspicuous wide brimmed black hat on top of his head.
Sister and I had paid a visit to Aunt Elma, pulled at either of her arms and moved
her plump body up to the kitchen window and proudly presented to her our man
that stood now full grown and rotund but just a bit naked. “We need to dress him
up Aunt Elma.” “You sure do,” She said nodding with that broad smile of hers.
Then she led us to various treasure troves. Sister and I had our eyeballs grow
bigger and bigger when she opened the closet and pointed to all the various clothes
her deceased husband and two step sons had left her. Overalls and knickers, black
woolen suits they wore on Sunday morning to church, jackets with lamb lining, fur
hats, hats with high and low crowns, wide and narrow brims. She reached for the
largest hat on the rack and handed it to us ceremoniously. “Here, put this hat on
your snow man and he will look more respectable than any snow man ever built in
this neighborhood.” Sister and I were both ecstatic, both of us holding on to this
precious garment.
“I’ll give you some coke so your snow man shows big black buttons,” She
said. We couldn't believe what a great expert Aunt Elma was with dressing up
snow men. Loaded with hat and coke the size of large eggs wrapped in newspaper
we stormed down several flights of stairs. Somewhere on our downward rush, Dad
held out his arms and held us up, “Wait a minute, you guys and don’t you think
you're missing something?” We were so happy with what we got we hadn't thought
any further. “Look at this hat Dad,” Sister said and placed it on her head which
promptly was covered all the way down to her nose. “Splendid,” Dad said and
again we could feel the warm tone of affection shine through his words. Dad lifted
his arms and let us pass by, for we were like colts bucking and butting, having no
minute to spare in conversation.
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Once the hat was in place, snow man looked like a Mafia Godfather. Two
coals functioned as eyes, but the hat's wide brim partially obscured his eyes, thus
making him a mean old dude. We buttoned him up and down with the rest of the
coal and found that something was missing. Sister stepped back and craned her
neck and so did I, but the missing object wouldn't release its name right away. Dad
came by once again now appraising the almost finished piece of art. “Could this
guy be alive?” He asked and sister and I looked at him in puzzlement. “It's just a
snow man Dad,” Sister re-assured him. “Ah so! But don’t you think he'd appreciate
a nose and a mouth perhaps, just so he can breathe in and out?” Sister and I looked
at each other dumbfounded that's exactly what we had been missing, but couldn't
really name it.
So we went upstairs again bursting into Aunt Elma's kitchen where we
smelled the rich aroma of lentil soup with bacon and home made noodles that she
had tossed into a skillet with butter. This made us almost forget our urgent
purpose. “We need a nose and a mouth, Aunt Elma,” Sister said, and poked her
nose into the steaming pot with the lentils and bacon. “You think a carrot will do
for a nose?” She asked. We both agreed strongly by nodding our heads at the same
time. With her small but quick steps she went to the pantry where she kept produce
in wicker baskets. After she pulled off the greens, she handed me the largest carrot
and asked with a wide grin “Satisfied?” Of course we were satisfied and again we
bolted downstairs giving our Mafia man the nose to breathe with. We put the nose
in crooked which further accentuated his image of being a crook. Once more we
stepped back and found him perfect. "Except for the... what was it, Dad said he still
needed?" I asked. “Oh, he needs a broom,” Sister said with excitement, and up we
stormed toward the house again. Appearances had turned gray as the twilight of
dusk was settling in. We looked around in the shop near the table saw where Dad
would keep his countless tools, leather belts for the elevators and transmission
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wheels, screws as big as twice the size of my index finger, nuts wider than my
open mouth, and bolts so fat and long, you could knock a full-grown man
unconscious with one. Here, Dad also kept brooms of all sizes and shapes, brooms
to push the dirt and brooms to collect dirt from the corners and niches. Sister and I
opted for a scrawny one that had lost much of the broomcorn straw.
Once we stuck that broom into the snow man’s side he looked truly happy.
Sister exhausted by our day's work, with much contentment and great pride walked
back up to the mill where Mom and Dad were expecting us to join the table for
dinner.