By Kathy Oswalt-Forsythe
A new year. A fresh layer of snow. A pond with fresh ice.
As children, we approached winter with such excitement, wonder and joy!
During our elementary school years, my classmates and I were united in our quiet impatience during winter snows. We sneaked peeks at the falling fluff as we tried to make progress in our workbooks. The hands on the big wall clock seemed stalled; we just longed to be out there in the fresh snow.
We sped through lunch, donned our snow gear, and charged through the double doors to the playground.
And there we were. We turned our faces to the sky, caught snowflakes on our tongues, and captured them in our mittens.
When we were in 4th grade, we often ran to the back of the playground, where we found a large area of pristine snow. There we set up and played a game called “Fox and Geese.” I remember this as nearly innate: perhaps we had learned about this activity in a story? Or was it somehow hardwired in our DNA from generations of our ancestors playing the game? I don’t remember any explanation of the rules—I just joined the play.
To prepare, someone took the lead and made a large circle. The rest of us followed like a gaggle of bundled, scarf-wrapped goslings, stomping and packing the snow with our boots until the path was visible and wide enough. Then we made about ten spokes though the wheel—stamping these paths which intersected in the center. There we made a safe spot—the nest for a goose—and created at least two other nests along the outer edge of the wheel. Even with our diverse energy levels and focusing abilities—and believe me, like today’s children, it was varied—there was systematic, clear organization.
We voted for someone as fox, and then it began.
If you were tagged by the fox, you became the fox, and only one goose could be in a safe spot at a time. This was great exercise as it kept us all moving and running during the whole game.
By the time our playground monitor blew her whistle at the school’s backdoor, we were ready to go back to class: Our legs ached, our heads and necks were sweaty under our woolen hats.
I imagine kids today still play a version of this tag game at recess—and I hope, like generations before, they re-enter their classrooms spent and ready again to learn and finish their school day.
My brothers and I played something similar at home, but it wasn’t nearly as fun as having 20 classmates screaming and running from one another.
At home, we built forts, tunneled in drifts, and once there was thick ice, we shoveled the pond for skating and hockey. We loved it all.
I vow to approach fresh snowfall this winter with emotions close to what I experienced in childhood: Instead of grumbling about the cold, I’m planning to embrace the beauty and freshness of the season.
When I walk Zippy, my lungs will fill and tingle, my breath circling around my head when I exhale.
The crunch of snow, the warmth of lights in our neighbors’ windows, will remind me of my many blessings.
It’s a Fine Life
