Today I remember Christmases past. I remember the year Colby was fifteen months old and kicked Santa Claus. The year he was a little more than two and was afraid to sled down my mom's slightly sloping driveway. We made snow angels instead. I remember the year he was three and got the choo choo train and the drum he had been asking for all year, every day, since the Christmas he was two.
By Colby's fourth Christmas he and my mom and I were sledding down the bigger hill in her yard like pros. That was also the year he begged to go to the dinosaur exhibit at the Minnesota Science Museum, then screamed when he saw the first dinosaur and refused to go in. By age eight Colby had graduated to sledding the hills at the local golf course and by age ten he was beginning to snowboard. We built snow forts and snow men (and snow women and dogs) and had a number of snowball fights.
In between the snow, there were trips to other museums, art exhibits, plays, concerts, restaurants, and lots and lots of movies. And board games. Colby always won at Michigan Rummy. And there were always projects Mom needed done. Colby fixed the gate to the downstairs when he was about twelve and it still works. He re-hung closet doors, helped clean out those same closets, and learned to drive on snow.
When Colby was maybe nine, he and Mom and I made cardboard swords and decorated them glitter, beads, and bits of sparkly fabric from my old skating costumes. He made cookies with the neighbor behind us and we went for winter walks in the neighboring woods. He and I checked out the neighbor's houses from the front by walking on the frozen lake, being sure to stay close to the shoreline. We snuggled during blizzards, went to church, and drove around in the evenings and looked at Christmas lights.
I am so grateful for these wonderful memories. Christmas will never be the same without Colby, without family. I struggle with this new reality, in finding my place in holiday doings and the family gatherings of others. For now I ignore them. Colby's loss is still too fresh, too painful. Someday, maybe, the holidays will mean something to me once again. In the meantime I am blessed to have had wonderful Christmases past.
Showing posts with label snow. Show all posts
Showing posts with label snow. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Snow
The New Year's Eve that Colby was ten it snowed. Big, fat, silent flakes drifted from the sky and by early evening most Nashvillians were either tucked away safely in their homes, or already at their chosen celebratory location. On our street, in our neighborhood, not a single car had gone by since the snow began that afternoon. By eight, there was a good five inches of snow on the ground and we decided to go for a walk.
Outside the silence was stunning. Cocooning, if there is such a word. On the west side of town not a hint of freeway traffic could be heard. Not a door slamming, no voices, no planes. Not that it was a particularly noisy neighborhood where we lived then, but there were always city sounds in the background. Not so tonight. We walked down the sidewalk and when we reached the street we turned right. We started on the side of the street, but as it became apparent that we had the entire neighborhood to ourselves, we moved into the center with the crunch of our feet in the snow making the only sound we heard.
Colby and I marveled that the only tracks we saw were our own. Not even a dog or a rabbit had ventured out before us. And while most of our walk was in complete silence, on the way back, when we doubled over our own tracks, Colby said he hoped all the people and animals without homes had found a place to stay that night. Then he offered his room to anyone we might pass who was shivering in the snow, and I began to cry. While the chances were very slim that we'd come across anyone, Colby's offer was made in earnest. I was reminded once again what a gift Colby was, not just to me, but to everyone he met.
That New Year's Eve was by far my favorite of all my many new years. When we got home, we made hot chocolate and watched movies until it was time for Colby to open the door, run around the yard, bang on a few pots and yell "Happy New Year!" And, for the most part, it was. Although he had some problems, Colby's mental illness had not yet fully reared its ugly head. Today, I remember that magical night fondly. Like Colby, it was a gift, a treasure, and it reminds me that the best things in life truly are free.
Outside the silence was stunning. Cocooning, if there is such a word. On the west side of town not a hint of freeway traffic could be heard. Not a door slamming, no voices, no planes. Not that it was a particularly noisy neighborhood where we lived then, but there were always city sounds in the background. Not so tonight. We walked down the sidewalk and when we reached the street we turned right. We started on the side of the street, but as it became apparent that we had the entire neighborhood to ourselves, we moved into the center with the crunch of our feet in the snow making the only sound we heard.
Colby and I marveled that the only tracks we saw were our own. Not even a dog or a rabbit had ventured out before us. And while most of our walk was in complete silence, on the way back, when we doubled over our own tracks, Colby said he hoped all the people and animals without homes had found a place to stay that night. Then he offered his room to anyone we might pass who was shivering in the snow, and I began to cry. While the chances were very slim that we'd come across anyone, Colby's offer was made in earnest. I was reminded once again what a gift Colby was, not just to me, but to everyone he met.
That New Year's Eve was by far my favorite of all my many new years. When we got home, we made hot chocolate and watched movies until it was time for Colby to open the door, run around the yard, bang on a few pots and yell "Happy New Year!" And, for the most part, it was. Although he had some problems, Colby's mental illness had not yet fully reared its ugly head. Today, I remember that magical night fondly. Like Colby, it was a gift, a treasure, and it reminds me that the best things in life truly are free.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Snow
We are inundated with snow. It began three days ago and 17 inches later it is still coming down. Slowly, wistfully, as if it does not want to stop but knows it must. I shovel the steps and sidewalk every day. Sometimes twice a day. This is another task Colby and I used to share, that I now do alone. The ritual scooping of piles of snow in large flat shovels, scraping what we can of the ice that is adhered to the cement, then sweeping the shoveled space, and finally the spreading of ice melt in hopes that the next shoveling session is easier. Usually it is. Was. Because now, I shovel alone.
Before, after the shoveling was done Colby and I would make snow angels, snow forts, have an impromptu snowball fight or drive the mile or so to the local golf course and slide, or in Colby’s case, snowboard, down the big hill and across the tiny frozen pond. This is especially amazing as Colby was not at all fond of cold weather. He also didn’t like the thought of snow, although he liked snow itself. Liked playing in it. Now I do none of that, although I would enjoy every bit of it if Colby were here.
Sometimes, if the weather had been warm enough to create icicles on the eaves, Colby would take a long pole and attack the icicles until they had all fallen to the ground. I never had enough upper body strength to manage a pole long enough to hit a second-story eave, but Colby could do it when he was twelve. This year there are not many icicles. So far. It is expensive to bring someone in to knock them down because it is a dangerous job. If you don’t stand out of the way, one of the sharp, icy spears could slice right through you. Wearing thick, padded layers helps, but that also was something Colby was not fond of.
Everything I see here, everything I do, reminds me of Colby, reminds me of his loss. I am back to the numb state, incapable of feeling the anger that so recently permeated my being, incapable of feeling sad, or happy, or much of anything else. I can, however, remember. I can remember that Colby had wonderful times here in Minnesota. I can remember that a week before he passed Colby told me this house was the one place he felt was home. And for that I can, do, feel gladness.
Before, after the shoveling was done Colby and I would make snow angels, snow forts, have an impromptu snowball fight or drive the mile or so to the local golf course and slide, or in Colby’s case, snowboard, down the big hill and across the tiny frozen pond. This is especially amazing as Colby was not at all fond of cold weather. He also didn’t like the thought of snow, although he liked snow itself. Liked playing in it. Now I do none of that, although I would enjoy every bit of it if Colby were here.
Sometimes, if the weather had been warm enough to create icicles on the eaves, Colby would take a long pole and attack the icicles until they had all fallen to the ground. I never had enough upper body strength to manage a pole long enough to hit a second-story eave, but Colby could do it when he was twelve. This year there are not many icicles. So far. It is expensive to bring someone in to knock them down because it is a dangerous job. If you don’t stand out of the way, one of the sharp, icy spears could slice right through you. Wearing thick, padded layers helps, but that also was something Colby was not fond of.
Everything I see here, everything I do, reminds me of Colby, reminds me of his loss. I am back to the numb state, incapable of feeling the anger that so recently permeated my being, incapable of feeling sad, or happy, or much of anything else. I can, however, remember. I can remember that Colby had wonderful times here in Minnesota. I can remember that a week before he passed Colby told me this house was the one place he felt was home. And for that I can, do, feel gladness.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
