We have nine snowmen in our front yard. One snow child. In the past month or two, I rolled, lifted, and balanced balls of snow for their snow bodies, searched for sturdy twigs. My wife peeled carrots, dumped raisins in a dish, ransacked closets for hats and mittens, a moth-eaten vest, an old apron, faded scarves that wave in the wind. Five-year-old Sibby patted ice-cold stomachs, smoothed bumpy lumps of snow, tucked old boots and shoes in front of round white bottoms. We have a large lawn, as do our neighbors on the cul-de-sac, but we have the most and best-dressed snowmen. In the mornings, I clear the porch steps, shovel our walks and driveway, before I head off to my job at the PO. My next-door neighbor shovels his walks and driveway in the evenings. His MAGA sign keeps getting buried, and he keeps digging it out. Of course, when he waves, I wave back like a good neighbor. Somehow, though constant, this snow is not burying us. Hard to explain. Yesterday, Sibby said it first. “When’s it going to stop?”
This Saturday morning, I stand at the window and see that the heavy overnight snow is perfect for building snowmen. “Maybe we should add to the snow family,” I tell my wife and Sibby. “Or do a dog or cat,” though I’m not sure how. After breakfast, we suit up in coats and boots, hats and mittens that have come to feel like a uniform. Freezing cold air is waiting on the porch overlooking our white yard below. New neighbors three doors down are out in their yards with their toddler, who is piling snow on his head. Suddenly, Sibby pulls up short at the top of the stairs and squints at the nine snowmen in our white yard. “What?” I say. “What?” my wife echoes. We are both oddly fearful. Sibby shakes her head, hat tassels flopping. “I’m done. No more snowmen.” She slams back inside, and we follow. She kicks her snow boots under the kitchen table, unzips the polka dot snowsuit my wife just zipped her into. Without looking at each other, my wife and I unzip our own parkas, unlace our boots. Sibby clicks on the weather channel, where a new weatherman is talking about last night’s record snow accumulation. Recently, three weathermen have come and gone with no explanation. This new weatherman is non-committal as he talks about snow patterns, lake-effect snow, and tells historical anecdotes that are meant to be comforting. We have hot chocolate with our snow cones. Sibby says, “We’re running out of syrup. Why aren’t we running out of snow? When’s it going to stop?”
Monday, an early meeting takes me to work before I do my usual shoveling, so I shovel in the evening before dinner. Sibby is replacing pilfered carrot noses. Then she sets to making snow angels to watch over the snowmen. The next-door neighbor, out shoveling too, is surprised to see us. He leans on his huge red shovel that has partially rescued his red MAG sign, and calls out, “Your snowmen sure got spiffy outfits. You raid the closets?” In my mind, I too think “snowmen, snowman”– leftover from childhood. Our neighbor is still peering at our populated yard, so to be neighborly, I call, “Come on over and visit our snow people.” I really do say “snow people.” “Hey, sure thing,” he says and plants his shovel in the drift beside his sign, then crosses from his white yard into our white yard.
Sibby and I are proud snow parents as he slowly circles the nine figures, admiring the plaid vest, limp scarves, and the apron with lemons. He gingerly shakes the twig arm of the largest snowman, then he praises Sibby for sharing what was surely her own ratty stuffed bunny. Squinting, he says, “Hey, I’m really pleased to meet my neighbor’s snow people. Yeah, great snow people you have here.” “And snow angels,” Sibby says, and flops backwards to create another one. I say, “It’s sort of strange how the snow doesn’t seem to stop.” “Yeah,” he says. “But soon the government is going to do something about it. You’ll see.” He steps around the latest snow angel. “Like what?” Sibby says, from flat on her back. “Do what?” Yeah, I think, do what? Our neighbor just waves and slogs back to his yard. We can hear him muttering “snow people, snow people” as he gives his sign a final thump in place, “hah, snow people.” Next time I see him out shoveling in his white yard, he pretends they aren’t there. We all pretend something.