Késsinnimek - Roots - Racines

NEW ENGLAND WINTERS

by      Louise Dubrule

These days, in the late autumn of our years, we live in Texas, far removed from the Vermont of our youth. The thought of ‘home’ tugs at the heart, and because of that we subscribe to “Vermont Life”. The pictures are of familiar scenes and the articles remind us of what special people those stalwart Vermonters were…and still are. The winter issue arrived at the beginning of December, and the pictures of the pristine snowy landscapes were beautiful. “It’s pretty to look at,” we say, “but I couldn’t live through one of those winters anymore.” And yet….and yet…

The changing foliage of the Green Mountains is a spectacular sight, something that draws tourists from far away. To the ‘natives,’ it is a harbinger of the coming change. The first deep frost always took us by surprise and it served to remind us that it was time to prepare. Sometimes little flurries came the first week of October while there were still leaves on the trees but we knew that it was only a sample of what was in store for us.

Mama called the month of November ‘le mois des morts’ (month of the dead) for a couple of reasons. First there was All Saints Day and All Souls Day at the beginning of the month. Most of all, the countryside looked dead: the trees were denuded, the leaves gone, and only the evergreens were still clad. The cornfields and gardens were empty, and the flowerbeds were sleeping under deep mulch of hay and leaves, protected as much as possible. There was no green anywhere so that a photograph could be in taken with color film, but the resulting picture would be in black and white anyway. We all waited.

Snow came in fits and starts, sometimes melting within a few hours, but finally the sky turned the color of lead and the horizon was nearly gone. We knew we were in for it. The first real snowfall to stay was a joy to behold, for suddenly all the dead vegetation was blanketed and the vista was almost too pretty to look at. At that point we didn’t think of the hardship ahead.

My memories of winter on the farm are mostly of Papa bundling up for the trek to the barn to care for the herd of cows patiently waiting for food and water. Sometimes I went with him and Mama for the afternoon chores and we could see the cows’ breath in the cold air. I was well wrapped in a woolen scarf and mittens, and I remember wondering how Mama and Papa could use their bare hands to wash the udders and milk the cows. All that while, I was dancing to keep my feet warm inside my boots.

The farm house was warm enough downstairs, with a Franklin-type stove in the main room and the big wood-burning stove in the kitchen. That stove was a trial for the cook during the summer, but it was the gathering place for the family in the winter. The blue enamelware coffee pot was always toward the back, warm and ready for the next cup. The two upper warming ovens were a good place to dry wet mittens and socks, and it was a pleasure to rest one’s feet against the oven door for a few minutes. Mama heated water on the stove for washing, and I took a bath in front of the stove. Did the adults do the same thing?

How different it was when we moved to town. For one thing, the house was heated with a big furnace in the cellar, and registers brought the warmth to the three main rooms downstairs. Heat is supposed to rise, and it was assumed that some of it would reach the three bedrooms and the bathroom upstairs. Maybe so, but we couldn’t have slept without Mama’s heavy quilts and flannel sheets. The linoleum floors were icy, and we often woke to find fine powder snow on the inside window sills while the panes were covered with intricate lace patterns. The saving grace was that there was hot water to wash with just by turning a faucet in the sink or in the bathtub that sat on ball-and-claw feet.

We didn’t think twice about walking to school in the cold and snow, for everyone else did too. Mama wrapped a long scarf around my head so only my eyes peeked out, and before I’d turned the corner onto Center Street, my breath had frozen on the scarf. Uncle Emile lived on Troy Street, about a third of the way to school, and Aunt Estelle was kind enough to allow me and a couple of my friends to stop in for a couple of minutes to warm up before continuing on our way. We girls couldn’t wear slacks in school, so with our dresses we wore long underwear under thigh-high cotton stockings that were the color of paper sacks. We were allowed to wear snow pants to walk to school, but they had to be hung up with our coats in the cloak room. You can imagine the smell of all that wet wool.

In this part of the country, school is called off is there is a snowfall of three inches or more. Not so in Richford. On the worst days of winter, we listened for the Sweat Coming Factory whistle. If the roads from the country were impassable or the cold was too severe for the school boilers to cope, the whistle blew at 7 AM. Mothers all over town groaned, knowing that the children would be home, going in and out all day, tracking wet footprints on clean floors. When I was in the fourth grade, one day sticks in my mind. The thermometer on the front porch read 37 below zero but the whistle didn’t blow, so we bundled up in an extra layer or two and trudged on. When we got to school we learned that, indeed, the boiler wasn’t up to the task and we were free to go back home after we’d rested up a bit. We walked back home and played outside most of the day, going in and out often to warm up, just as our mothers feared.

The snowplows ran day and night if necessary, and in their wake they left driveway entrances clogged. Many times Papa or Mama had shoveled the whole length of the driveway clear, only to have to do the last four feet all over again. By the time February rolled around, the sidewalks had disappeared on all but Main Street. The highway, Route 105, to Enosburg, St. Albans and Burlington stayed open and sanded. The snowbanks on the sides were high enough to obscure the red picket snow fences that had been staked out on some of the sloping shoulders, and the farms we passed were heavily blanketed except for the driveway and paths from house to out buildings. Papa had snow tires for the winter, but when the going was really tough, he put chains on the tires. I can still remember the sound they made.

Sudden thaws made us think that maybe we were going to have an early spring, but the early month of February almost always brought us a heavy blizzard, a storm that my mother called “la tempête de ta fête” (your birthday storm). In fact, my February birthday was seldom celebrated at school because the mill whistle had blown.

Heavy snowfall endangered houses and it was a common sight to see someone shoveling snow off a roof. One year in the early 50s, a Quonset­type building in town collapsed on New Year’s Eve due to the weight of the snow. This was a new Knights of Columbus hall that was due to open with a dance that night. The dance was moved, and fortunately nobody had been hurt. The design was changed, the building was rebuilt and it became a grocery store.

Icicles in varying sizes hung from the eaves of buildings. Actually they were a sign that heat was escaping, but everyone had a few anyway. You could tell how warm the day was by watching to see if the icicles were dripping. It was permissible to break off a little icicle and lick it like a candy cane, and we didn’t worry about it being full of germs. What you weren’t supposed to do was stick your tongue on a cold metal surface, and every winter someone did it and got into trouble. One time a girl touched the railing of the bridge that spanned the Missisquoi River in the middle of town, and it took warm water from a Good Samaritan to free her.

Snow is not all created equal. My favorite was the big, fluffy flakes that reminded me of ‘dust bunnies.’ Mama used to say that the angels were shaking out their dust mops, and it truly looked like that. Some snow was finer, and this ‘powder’ was the favorite of the skiing enthusiasts. Granular snow was usually wind-blown and it stung exposed skin like needles. The young people were waiting for the snow that was perfect for making snowballs and snow forts when it packed well in mittened hands. Some snow fell wet and froze immediately so that every branch of every tree and every electric and phone line was covered against the sky. Farmers and homeowners were worried about such ice storms for it meant downed power lines and resulting cold homes and barns.

There were fields of snow that had crusted on top, and it was a challenge to walk without breaking through. The sound that is still firmly planted in my mind is the squeaky crunch of snow when it was crisp and cold. Once in a great while, when conditions were just right something called ‘snow rollers’ developed….long, large rolls of snow that dotted fields and invited curious folks and newspaper reporters to take pictures. We were far enough north that occasionally we saw some faint glimmers of the aurora borealis in the night sky, giving us just a glimpse of their awesome beauty.

It seemed that winter dragged on forever, and just when we thought we couldn’t face another day of boots and scarves and mittens, the breeze felt a little different. I recall Papa watching the hillsides for signs that someone was starting to boil syrup, a sure sign that the seasons were changing.

So as I write this at the very end of December, the Vermont region of our youth has had just a little bit of snow and a brown Christmas. Meanwhile, here in El Paso, our Franklin Mountains were white this morning with a dusting of snow that looked like confectioner’s sugar. It was pretty enough to bring lump to my throat for it was a reminder of our place of birth.

I’m sure that some areas still have the winters such as those of years ago, and I hope that they will stay warm with scarves and mittens and cozy quilts. This winter, we sit by our wood fire and feel fortunate that our old bones don’t have to cope with snow banks and icy walkways. We’re quite content to just look at the pictures of the snowy landcapes.

 

Késsinnimek - Roots - Racines
Copyright © 2003 & 2004 & 2005 & 2006 & 2007 Norm Léveillée
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Created 1 Feb 2003