Waiting for Snow
A childhood of sledding, snowball fights, and frozen tears
At North Village Apartments in Amherst, Mass., kids came from all over the world, so each winter, I got to witness someone’s first snowstorm. Nearly as exciting as experiencing the season’s first snow was watching a new friend from as far as Africa and as close as Puerto Rico catch a snowflake on their tongue for the first time or seeing their face light up at the muted thump of their first snowball hitting the side of a building. These moments were like watching someone step off a spaceship and onto the moon. I imagine that’s how foreign the snow felt to them.
As a child, I loved the winter, mostly because I loved the snow. Kids from Boston bragged that their snow was better—more dramatic because it came with gusts of wind so powerful they sometimes lifted them off their feet. Those of us from New York bragged that our snow caused the city to feel deceptively clean and peaceful during even a small dusting. Then, overnight, the snow mutated into giant frozen craters and dark puddles whose unknown depths were to be avoided at all costs for fear of falling in and being completely submerged. To the city kids, snow was at once magical and menacing, something to both worship and fear.
Our regional snowstorm bragging felt like a Yankees vs. Red Sox rivalry. I only cared about baseball to the extent that I owned a blue hat with a “NY” logo on it, my bushy afro bursting from its sides. Otherwise, New York and Boston were just two nearby cities where some kids had spent a portion of our thus-far short lives. More than the snow divided us, it brought us together. It took all of us to lug heavy, metal sleds up steep hills, our puffy coats and clunky boots weighing us down and making each arduous step feel like it happened in slow motion. We tackled each other to the ground, knowing that the fluffy landing would be soft. And if one of us lay on the ground crying, surprised by the friendly attack, we’d lift him up. I was always afraid of crying in the snow, not just for the obvious reason that no kid wants to cry in front of their friends, but because I feared my tears would freeze to my face and I’d have to go inside early. Tears or not, we all eventually felt the burning faces, aching fingertips, and damp feet that told us the discomfort would only increase if we didn’t finally go home.
Safely inside, my disrobing was a dizzying blur of standing with my hands held high while snot ran down my nose and cheap faux-down gear tried to steal my ears as my mother pulled layers of heavy, damp clothing over my head. I’d spin around a few times, lie down, stand up—whatever it took to remove the layers that ostensibly kept me warm and dry, but eventually did more to ensure I was cold and wet. As if by magic, by the time my clothes were off, a warm bath was ready. Within seconds, I’d turn from a wet, writhing whiner into a mellow, content kid. I’d sip from a glass of warm, earthy liquid that tasted like a lot of honey masking some kind of hippie herb meant to undo whatever I’d just put myself through outside. I never wanted to get out of the bath, insisting it wouldn’t actually be unreasonable to sleep there.
I was born during a New York City winter and grew up in places where snow was just part of life. Now it rarely snows in New York, and I miss it. Sure, the city can be a disgusting mess after a big snow, but during and after a storm, when the snow is fresh and everything feels quiet, it’s a small price to pay for those magical few hours.
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Nabil Ayers / Brooklyn