Snow-filled Memories

 

Snow-filled Memories

As I drove from my home just outside of the village of White, Pennsylvania to Indian Head, I began to recall the many times I’d ridden or driven the same two lane road in the snow. The twisting wooded lane is called Poplar Run. No matter the time of year, it’s always beautiful. The snow hanging heavy on the bare branches of beech, oak, and maple, made lacey patterns that glistened in the sunlight. At night they sparkled in the headlights of the car. Mountain laurel still line the banks of Poplar Run. Their dark glossy leaves in contrast with the white snow.

The most beautiful sight of all was the young pines standing on a steep slope with their feathery branches heavily laden with newly fallen snow. They seemed to spread their arms wide to gather as many of the flakes as they could hold and then wrap themselves in a thick white quilt. They’re much older now with fewer needles, but at one time, in their prime, they wore heavy dark green coats. That wondrous sight would suddenly pop into view as I made a sharp turn. It was as though a visual feast was spread out just for me. I knew it was there, but its beauty always appeared suddenly. It was the darkness of the branches gracefully sagging beneath the weight of the new-fallen snow. It was the surprise I enjoyed even as a child riding in the back seat of my parent’s Carl and Sybil Miner Beck’s car. My views were often hampered by sharing the backseat with my brother Ken and sister Kathy, but it was always enjoyable.

Other roads that my dad drove gave me a different memory. I can recall times when I had to press my face against the car window to look upward to see the bright blue sky over the top of the drifted and plowed high banks of snow.

Another snowy memory of my dad was that he hated to be late. His mantra was, “If you’re not early, you’re late.” One Sunday morning we tried three different routes to get to church during a snow storm. The roads were covered in snow and very slippery. As Dad pulled into the parking lot of the white clapboard Clinton Church of God, the music was already playing for the first hymn. Dad said, “Get back in the car kids” and he drove us home. I’m sure that God wouldn’t have minded, but Dad was a stickler for being punctual.

This year, snow has come in surges as did my recollections of snow ball battles, sled riding, and other scenes of cold wintertime beauty that remain stored in my brain.