During the winter of 72 the temperature dropped well below freezing for four straight weeks. I confirmed this recently by a google search of meteorological history in the Boston area. And during that time, unbelievably, the Charles River froze over.
Knowing my father, he watched the river during those frigid weeks on his commute from work, traveling its route home every evening as he, and it, wound through Cambridge. He watched as each cold day followed the next, and he waited. I’ll never know the brave soul who ventured out first on that impossibly frozen river, but it’s likely Dad watched for that too, and once enough people did, so did we.
Since the onset of adult responsibility, the winter season has admittedly lost much of its luster for me. Childhood excitement of snow forts and cancelled school days has long been replaced by requirements of shoveling and ice melt – but I’m working on it. There’s nothing like grandchildren for prompting a freshening of one’s jaded perspective.
It snowed last night and I woke up to find a measurable amount on the ground. This time I returned to bed, quieting my familiar monkey-mind thoughts of winter dread, returning instead to that day on the river.
And although Dad and I had many more skate days together, this was definitely our best – the day I’ll be calling to mind with forecasts of snow.
Skating Away, my latest knit, coming soon.
Update: Skating Away published 2/5/2020