Emily Articulated: Winter

By Emily Erickson
Reader Columnist

There was a time when the word “bundle” meant smooshed cheeks into too-puffy coats, mittens slid onto red, wind-chapped hands; when “banks” were something filled with snow. “ICE” was something to skate on and “flakes” were omnipresent — falling generously from the sky, never making us wonder when they’d arrive. A “gaslight” meant a few minutes with the warmth seeping from the car, until it was turned on again, an empty signal restored — the chill impermanent.

As my boots crunch over snow-spotted earth, the dirt clings to my soles, and I find myself thinking, “Remember when?” Remember when the mountain opened on Thanksgiving and we skied until April? When snowplows ran through the night, leaving towering piles of white and brown in parking lots? When school closures were announced like grocery lists, a breath required to finish reporting all the names.

Remember when things felt clear and simple? When neighbors were other people’s parents, someone to wave at while you broke icicles off of your roof? When local TV news stations covered ice fishing derbies, not raids, and when “safety” meant looking both ways before tipping your sled over the lip of a hill? “Security” had nothing to do with jobs, and morals were things that we shared — not fought over to define.

I loved winter as a child, despite Wisconsin’s frigid cold. It felt inherently playful — everything was an invitation to be experienced in an unexpected way. An old man’s sandy, barren hill transformed into a kingdom, a race course, a stomping ground once it was piled with snow. A low field that sat soggy with river spillage became a rink, a place to hurry to after school, skates in hand. The world felt malleable then, reshaped overnight by weather alone, inviting us to see our surroundings for all their possibilities — as invitations to take risks, to push limits and cultivate joy.

In this, the danger and sharpness of winter, of the world, was padded. Falls didn’t hurt the same way as they might on pavement or rocks, and mistakes landed even softer. We wore layers not just for warmth, but for courage — to test our limits, to move fast and to trust that wherever we ended up, we’d arrive cushioned and warm.

I moved to Sandpoint in the middle of a snowstorm, my fingers sore from gripping the steering wheel, dodging drifts on I-90 through Montana. I was welcomed, red-nosed, into a warmly lit bar and given a menu. People called each other by name and spoke of things I would come to know in time — Sam’s Alley, Pucci’s Tots, Chuck Slough and the K-9 Keg Pull.

The person next to me asked where I was from. I didn’t flinch or feel shame in my answer. I said, “Well, here, as of today.”

But lately, winter feels different, especially in its halfhearted attempts to arrive and stay. My snowpants lie folded in a bin labeled “winter gear,” waiting for a season that no longer commits. The ground freezes, then thaws. Dirt shows through where snow used to hold. The dull and the sharp arrive together now, and it feels like a bellwether — weather and whether or not we’ll arrive at a future unscathed.

“Here” feels different, too. Maybe it’s adulthood, or maybe it’s the world changing too fast around me. Things that were once certain — snow would fall, neighbors would wave, people’s deepest instinct was to care for one another — no longer feel guaranteed.

The lessons of winter might be melting, like frost on our window panes: cold days and frozen nights invite community and care, and warmth is something we build (and share) together.

The padding we once enjoyed, or expected, softened our falls and made room for mistakes. But now that padding has thinned, and we’re learning to move more carefully — not because the ground is slick, but because we’re forgetting how to catch one another when we fall.

So I’m left asking, “Remember when?” wondering if it’s only winter I’ll be nostalgic for, and hoping for an impending snowstorm, a transformation, a chance to restore my childlike wonder for the people and place I call “home.”

Emily Erickson is a writer and business owner with an affinity for black coffee and playing in the mountains. Connect with her online at www.bigbluehat.studio.