When I heard about the Kiwanis Club’s annual tradition of
trucking in piles of shaved ice for Hollister’s snow-deprived
children, I knew I had to be there.
When I heard about the Kiwanis Club’s annual tradition of trucking in piles of shaved ice for Hollister’s snow-deprived children, I knew I had to be there. Growing up in Wisconsin, this is my first winter away from snow.
I wasn’t sure beforehand whether I missed the cold winters and sights of unending white or was overjoyed to be free from a childhood scarred by hours of toe-numbing driveway shoveling and, more recently, unavoidable spills to the ground in front of hundreds of college students walking to classes.
I arrived Saturday to Snow Day at Dunne Park and talked with long-time Hollister residents who reminisced about the last big blizzard here, in 1962. Others talked about their children experiencing snow for the first time.
The kids, of course, were enthralled – happily screaming when the trucks emptied 80,000 pounds of shaved ice, stomping up and down on piles and throwing snowballs at friends and parents, and some when they first realized the often unpleasant feeling of skin on snow – or pavement – crying.
But most of them – after sliding down the mound on saucer-sleds provided by the Kiwanis Club – showed looks on their little faces of complete confusion at the bottom of the hill. No smile, no sobbing, just expressions that clearly said, “Mom, Dad, what the heck is going on? Where am I? Nothing makes sense right now.” Like dazed boxers getting up from the canvas.
At Snow Day, I felt less like the new guy in town and more like an expert on something. For all my blunders – a warped sense of humor, terrible math skills, blackjack misfortune, girls, etc., etc. – I have a unique perspective in Hollister… a love-hate relationship with snow, a history.
The experience Saturday brought back memories from childhood and the years that followed – which I knew would help me realize my dubious conviction: Do I miss the Midwestern winters?
As kids in Wisconsin, we only saw the good things in a blizzard. We didn’t worry about cars not starting or auto accidents. We didn’t care that driveways needed shoveling. We only cared about three things – school cancellations, snowball fights and sledding. We weren’t even old enough to care about the ridiculous clothing that came with the territory.
For instance, kids wore full-body snowsuits that made a dreadful sound of “wshhht wshhht wshhht” as we tried to walk, desperately, without ripping the crotch of the pants. We wore bright-colored “moon boots,” which I now suspect were made from the same material as Huggies.
I didn’t even mind the times my older brothers – to curb their boredom – would push my head to the ground for a periodic “face wash.”
But as I got older, snowstorms seemed more and more tormenting.
Social pressures in middle school compelled me to scrap the diaper jumpsuit and walk through the snow each day in jeans, while foolishly stopping every 10 feet to re-roll my preppie-style pants legs. Moon boots were widely replaced by Nike Air Force Sky Pumps.
At some point I was given driveway shoveling duties, which brought me to a previously unfathomable crossroad: Would I rather be in classes painfully bored or outside, but painfully shoveling? Neither was enticing.
In those respects, college was a polar opposite – but even more frustrating. We didn’t have driveways to shovel, but classes were never canceled because driving was unnecessary. So we walked, and slipped, and sometimes fell.
I remember one particular Friday late night – because I’m an occasional moron – it was snowing and I decided to ride my bike home from work, steering with one hand while carrying a cup of coffee in the other.
I hope the dozens of students looking through the front window at that bar appreciated the free entertainment of me toppling over my handle bars with coffee flying through the air. I know I enjoyed it.
With that, I’ve realized I’m content without my flurry friend. Sure, I took for granted the occasional white Christmas, snowball fights and sloppy pickup football games. But I can’t complain in Hollister with its 70-degree February afternoons. And if I get a desire anytime soon, well, there’s always Tahoe, which ain’t so bad.
